J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 13 Seduction In Death v1.1
Seduction 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.]

SEDUCTION IN DEATH

J. D. Robb

Copyright (c) 2001

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

[Blurb]

Dante had been
courting his victim in cyberspace for weeks before meeting her in person. A few
sips of wine and a few hours later, she was dead. The murder weapon: a rare,
usually undetectable date-rape drug with the street value of a quarter of a
million dollars.

Lieutenant Eve
Dallas is playing and replaying the clues in her mind. The candlelight, the
music, the rose petals strewn across the bed -- a seduction meant for his
benefit, not hers. He hadn't intended to kill her. But now that he has, he is
left with only two choices: He can either hole up in fear and guilt, or he can
start hunting again....

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

True, I
talk of dreams,

Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

-- William
Shakespeare

Yet each
man kills the thing he loves,

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word.

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

-- Oscar
Wilde

CHAPTER ONE

Death came in
dreams. She was a child who was not a child, facing a ghost who, no matter how
often his blood bathed her hands, would not die.

The room was
cold as a grave, hazed by the red light that blinked, on and off, on and off,
against the dirty window glass. The light spilled over the floor, over the
blood, over his body. Over her as she huddled in the corner with the knife,
covered with gore to the hilt, still in her hand.

Pain was
everywhere, radiating through her in stupefying waves that had no beginning or
end, but circled, endlessly circled, into every cell. The bone in her arm he'd
snapped, the cheek where he'd backhanded her so carelessly. The center of her
that had torn, again, during the rape.

She was
smothered by the pain, coated with shock. And washed with his blood.

She was eight.

She could see
her own breath as she panted. Little ghosts that told her she was alive. She
could taste the blood inside her mouth, a bright and terrible flavor, and smell
-- just under the ripeness of fresh death -- the stink of whiskey.

She was alive,
and he was not. She was alive, and he was not. Again and again she chanted
those words in her head, and her mind tried to make sense of them.

She was alive.
He was not.

And his eyes,
open and staring, fixed on her.

Smiled.

You can't
get rid of me so easy, little girl.

Her breath came
faster, in hitching gasps that wanted to gather into a scream. That wanted to
burst out of her throat. But all that came was a whimper.

Made a mess
of things, haven't you? Just can't do what you're told.

His voice was
so pleasant, bright with that grinning humor she knew was the most dangerous of
all. While he laughed, blood poured out of the holes she'd hacked into him.

What's the
matter, little girl? Cat got your tongue?

I'm alive and
you're not. I'm alive and you're not.

Think so? He wiggled his fingers, a kind of teasing wave that
made her moan in terror as wet red drops flicked from the tips.

I'm sorry. I
didn't mean it. Don't hurt me again. You hurt me. Why do you have to hurt me?

Because
you're stupid. Because you don't listen! Because -- and here's the real secret
-- I can. I can do what I want with you and nobody gives a stinking rat's ass.
You're nothing, you're nobody, and don't you forget it, you little bitch.

She began to
cry now, thin cold tears that tracked through the mask of blood over her face.
Go away. Just go away and leave me alone!

I'm not
going to do that. I'm never going to do that.

To her horror,
he pushed himself to his knees. Crouched there like some nightmarish toad,
bloody and grinning. Watching her.

I got a lot
invested in you. Time and money. Who putsa fucking roof over your head? Who
puts food in your belly? Who takes you traveling all over this great country of
ours? Most kids your age haven't seen shit, but you have. But do you learn? No,
you don't. Do you pull your weight? No, you don't. But you're gonna. You
remember what I told you? You're gonna start earning your keep.

He got to his
feet, a big man with his hands slowly balling into fists at his side.

But now,
Daddy has to punish you. He took a
shambling step toward her. You've been a bad girl. And another. A
very bad girl.

Her own
screams woke her.

She was
drenched in sweat, shuddering with cold. She fought for breath, wildly
struggled to tear away the ropes of sheets that had wrapped around her as she'd
thrashed through the nightmare.

Sometimes he'd
tied her up. Remembering that, she made small, animal sounds in her throat as
she tore at the sheets.

Freed, she
rolled off the bed, crouched beside it in the dark like a woman prepared to
flee or fight.

“Lights! On
full. God, oh God.”

They flashed
on, chasing even a hint of shadow out of the huge, beautiful room. Still, she
scanned it, every corner, looking for ghosts as the nasty edge of the dream
jabbed through her gut.

She forced
back the tears. They were useless, and they were weak. Just as it was useless,
it was weak, to let herself be frightened by dreams. By ghosts.

But she
continued to shake as she crawled up to sit on the edge of the big bed.

An empty bed
because Roarke was in Ireland and her experiment of trying to sleep in it
without him, without dreams, had been a crashing failure.

Did that make
her pitiful? she wondered. Stupid? Or just married?

When the fat
cat, Galahad, bumped his big head against her arm, she gathered him up. She
sat, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, eleven years a cop, and comforted herself with the
cat as a child might a teddy bear.

Nausea coated
her stomach, and she continued to rock, to pray she wouldn't be sick and add
one more misery to the night.

“Time
display,” she ordered, and the dial of the bedside clock blinked on. One-fifteen,
she noted. Perfect. She'd barely made it an hour before she'd screamed
herself awake.

She set the
cat aside, got to her feet. As carefully as an old woman she stepped down from
the platform, crossed the room, and walked into the bathroom.

She ran the
water cold, as cold as she could stand, then sluiced it onto her face while
Galahad wound himself like a plump ribbon between her legs.

While he
purred into the silence, she lifted her head, examined her face in the mirror.
It was nearly as colorless as the water that dripped from it. Her eyes were
dark, looked bruised, looked exhausted. Her hair was a matted brown cap, and
her facial bones seemed too sharp, too close to the surface. Her mouth was too
big, her nose ordinary.

What the hell
did Roarke see when he looked at her? she wondered.

She could call
him now. It was after six in the morning in Ireland, and he was an early riser.
Even if he were still asleep, it wouldn't matter. She could pick up the 'link and
call, and his face would slide on-screen.

And he'd see
the nightmare in her eyes. What good would that do either of them?

When a man
owned the majority of the known universe, he had to be able to travel on
business without being hounded by his wife. In this case, it was more than
business that kept him away. He was attending a memorial to a dead friend, and
didn't need more stress and worry heaped on him from her end.

She knew,
though they'd never really discussed it, that he'd cut his overnight trips down
to the bone. The nightmares rarely came so violently when he was in bed beside
her.

She'd never
had one like this, one where her father had spoken to her after she'd
killed him. Said things to her she thought -- was nearly sure -- he'd said to
her when he'd been alive.

Eve imagined
Dr. Mira, NYPSD's star psychologist and profiler, would have a field day with
the meanings and symbolism and Christ-all.

That wouldn't
do any good either, she decided. So she'd just keep this little gem to herself.
She'd take a shower, grab the cat, and go upstairs to her office. She and
Galahad would stretch out in her sleep chair and conk out for the rest of the
night.

The dream
would have faded away by morning.

You
remember what I told you.

She couldn't,
Eve thought as she stepped into the shower and ordered all jets on full at a
hundred and one degrees. She couldn't remember.

And she didn't
want to.

She was
steadier when she stepped out of the shower, and however pathetic it was,
dragged on one of Roarke's shirts for comfort. She'd just scooped up the cat
when the bedside 'link beeped.

Roarke, she thought and her spirits lifted considerably.

She rubbed her
cheek against Galahad's head as she answered. “Dallas.”

Dispatch.
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve ...

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

Death didn't
only come in dreams.

Eve stood over
it now, in the balmy early morning air of a Tuesday in June. The New York City
sidewalk was cordoned off, the sensors and blocks squaring around the pavement
and the cheerful tubs of petunias used to spruce up the building's entrance.

She had a
particular fondness for petunias, but she didn't think they were going to do
the job this time. And not for some time to come.

The woman was
facedown on the sidewalk. From the angle of the body, the splatter and pools of
blood, there wasn't going to be a lot of that face left. Eve looked up at the
dignified gray tower with its semicircle balconies, its silver ribbon of people
glides. Until they identified the body, they'd have a hard time pinning down
the area from which she'd fallen. Or jumped. Or been pushed.

The one thing
Eve was sure of: It had been a very long drop.

“Get her
prints and run them,” she ordered.

She glanced
down at her aide as Peabody squatted, opened a field kit. Peabody's uniform cap
sat squarely on her ruler-straight dark hair. She had steady hands, Eve
thought, and a good eye. “Why don't you do time of death.”

“Me?” Peabody
asked in surprise.

“Get me an ID,
establish time of death. Log in description of scene and body.”

Now, despite
the grisly circumstance, it was excitement that moved over Peabody's face.
“Yes, sir. Sir, first officer on-scene has a potential witness.”

“A witness
from up there, or down here?”

“Down here.”

“I'll take
it.” But Eve stayed where she was a moment longer, watching Peabody scan the
dead woman's fingerprints. Though Peabody's hands and feet were sealed, she
made no contact with the body and did the scan quickly, delicately.

After one nod
of approval, Eve strode away to question the uniforms flanking the perimeter.

It might have
been nearly three in the morning, but there were bystanders, gapers, and they
had to be encouraged along, blocked out. News hawks were already in evidence,
calling out questions, trying to snag a few minutes of recording to pump into
the airwaves before the first morning commute.

An ambitious
glide-cart operator had jumped on the opportunity and was putting in some
overtime selling to the crowd. His grill pumped out smoke that spewed the
scents of soy dogs and rehydrated onions into die air.

He appeared to
be doing brisk business.

In the
gorgeous spring of 2059, death continued to draw an audience from the living,
and those who knew how to make a quick buck out of the deal.

A cab winged
by, didn't bother to so much as tap the brakes. From somewhere farther
downtown, a siren screamed.

Eve blocked it
out, turned to the uniform. “Rumor is we've got eyes.”

“Yes, sir.
Officer Young's got her in the squad car keeping her away from the ghouls.”

“Good.” Eve
scanned the faces behind the barrier. In them she saw horror, excitement,
curiosity, and a kind of relief.

I'm alive,
and you're not.

Shaking it
off, she hunted down Young and the witness.

Given the
neighborhood -- for in spite of the dignity and the petunias, the apartment
building was right on the border of midtown bustle and downtown sleaze -- Eve
was expecting a licensed companion, maybe a jonesing chemi-head or a dealer on
the way to a mark.

She certainly
hadn't expected the tiny, snappily dressed blonde with the pretty and familiar
face.

“Dr. Dimatto.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas?” Louise Dimatto angled her head, and the ruby clusters at her ears
gleamed like glassy blood. “Do you come in, or do I come out?”

Eve jerked a
thumb, held the car door wider. “Come on out.”

They'd met the
previous winter, at the Canal Street Clinic where Louise fought against the
tide to heal the homeless and the hopeless. She came from money, and her
bloodline was blue, but Eve had good reason to know Louise didn't quibble about
getting her hands dirty.

She'd nearly
died helping Eve fight an ugly war during that bitter winter.

Eve skimmed a
look over Louise's stoplight-red dress. “Making house calls?”

“A date. Some
of us try to maintain a healthy social life.”

“How'd it go?”

“I took a cab
home, so you be the judge.” She skimmed back her short, honeycomb hair with her
fingers. “Why are so many men so boring?”

“You know,
that's a question that haunts me day and night.” When Louise laughed, Eve
smiled in response. “It's good to see you, all things considered.”

“I thought you
might drop by the clinic, come see the improvements your donation helped
implement.”

“I think it's
called blackmail in most circles.”

“Donation,
blackmail. Let's not split hairs. You've helped save a few lives, Dallas.
That's got to be nearly as satisfying to you as catching those who take them.”

“Lost one
tonight.” She turned, looked back toward the body. “What do you know about
her?”

“Nothing,
really. I think she lives in the building, but she's not looking her best at
the moment, so I can't be sure.” After a long breath, Louise rubbed the back of
her neck. “Sorry, this is more in your line than mine. It's my first experience
nearly having a body fall in my arms. I've seen people die, and it's not always
gentle. But this was ...”

“Okay. You
want to sit back down? Want some coffee?”

“No. No. Let
me just tell it.” She steadied herself, a subtle squaring of the shoulders,
stiffening of the spine. “I ditched the date from tedium, grabbed a cab. We'd
gone to dinner and a club uptown. I got here about one-thirty, I suppose.”

“You live in
this building?”

“That's right.
Tenth floor. Apartment 1005. I paid the cab, got out on the curb. It's a pretty
night. I was thinking, It's a beautiful night, and I just wasted it on that
jerkoff. So I stood there for a couple minutes, on the sidewalk, wondering if I
should go in and call it a night, or take a walk. I decided I'd go up, fix a
nightcap, and sit out on my balcony. I turned, took another step toward the
doors. I don't know why I looked up -- I didn't hear anything. But I just
looked up, and she was falling, with her hair spread out like wings. It
couldn't have been more than two or three seconds, I'd barely had time to
register what I was seeing, and she hit.”

“You didn't
see where she fell from?”

“No. She was
coming down, and fast. Jesus, Dallas.” Louise had to pause a moment, rub the
image from her eyes. “She hit so hard, and with a really nasty sound I'm going
to be hearing in my sleep for a long time. It couldn't have been more than five
or six feet from where I was standing.”

She drew
another breath, made herself look over at the body. Now there was pity over the
horror. “People think they've reached the end of their ropes. That there's
nothing left for them. But they're wrong. There's always more rope. There's
always something left.”

“You think she
jumped?”

Louise looked
back at Eve. “Yes, I assumed ... I said I didn't hear anything. She didn't make
a sound. No scream, no cry. Nothing but the flutter of her hair in the wind. I
guess that's why I looked up.” She thought now. “I did hear something after
all. That flutter, like wings.”

“What did you
do after she hit?”

“I checked her
pulse. Knee-jerk,” Louise said with a shrug. “I knew she was dead, but I
checked anyway. Then I took out my pocket-link and called nine-one-one. You
think she was pushed? That's why you're here.”

“I don't think
anything yet.” Eve turned back toward the building. Some lights had been on
when she'd arrived, and there were more now so that it looked like a vertical
chessboard in silver and black. “Homicide gets tagged on leapers like this.
It's standard. Do yourself a favor. Go in, take a pill, zone out. Don't talk to
the press if they wheedle your name.”

“Good advice.
Will you let me know when ... when you know what happened to her?”

“Yeah, I can
do that. Want a uniform to take you up?”

“No, thanks.”
She took one last look at the body. “As bad as my night was, it was better than
some.”

“I hear you.”

“Best to
Roarke,” Louise added, then walked toward the doors.

Peabody was
already standing, her palm-link in hand. “Got an ID, Dallas. Bryna Bankhead,
age twenty-three, mixed race. Single. Residence apartment 1207 in the building
behind us. She worked at Saks Fifth Avenue. Lingerie. I established time of
death at oh-one-fifteen.”

“One-fifteen?”
Eve repeated, and thought of the readout on her bedside clock.

“Yes, sir. I
ran the measurements twice.”

Eve frowned
down at the gauges, the field kit, the bloody pool under the body. “Witness
said she fell about one-thirty. When was the nine-eleven logged?”

Uneasy now,
Peabody checked her 'link for the record. “Call came in at oh-one-thirty-six.”
She heaved out a breath that fluttered her thick, straight bangs. “I must've
screwed up the measurements,” she began. “I'm sorry -- “

“Don't
apologize until I tell you you've screwed up.” Eve crouched, opened her own
field kit, took out her own gauges. And ran the test a third time, personally.

“You
established time of death accurately. For the record,” she continued. “Victim,
identified as Bankhead, Bryna, cause of death undetermined. Time of death oh-one-fifteen.
TOD verified by Peabody, Officer Delia, and primary investigator Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve. Let's roll her, Peabody.”

Peabody
swallowed the questions on her tongue, and the quick rise of her own gorge. For
the moment she blanked her mind, but later she would think it had been like
rolling over a sack full of broken sticks swimming in thick liquid.

“Impact has
severely damaged victim's face.”

“Boy,” Peabody
breathed through her teeth. “I'll say.”

“Limbs and
torso also suffered severe damage, rendering it impossible to determine any
possible pre-mortem injury from visual exam. The body is nude. She's wearing
earrings.” Eve took out a small magnifier, peered through it at the lobes.
“Multicolored stones in gold settings, matching ring on right middle finger.”

She eased
closer until her lips were nearly on the victim's throat -- and Peabody's gorge
tried a second rising. “Sir...”

“Perfume.
She's wearing perfume. You walk around your apartment at one in the morning,
Peabody, wearing fancy earrings and fancy perfume?”

“If I'm awake
in my apartment at one in the morning, I'm usually in my bunny slippers. Unless
...”

“Yeah.” Eve
straightened. “Unless you've got company.” Eve turned to the crime scene tech.
“Bag her. I want her tagged for priority with the ME. I want her checked for
recent sexual activity, and any injuries that are pre-mortem. Let's have a look
at her apartment, Peabody.”

“She's not a
leaper.”

“Evidence is
pointing to the contrary.” She strode into the lobby. It was small and quiet,
and security cameras swept the area.

“I want the
discs from security,” she told Peabody. “Lobby level, and twelfth floor to
start.”

There was a
long pause as they stepped into the elevator and Eve called for the twelfth
floor. Then Peabody shifted her weight, trying for casual. “So... are you going
to bring in EDD?”

Eve stuck her
hands in her pockets, scowled at the blank, brushed metal doors of the
elevator. Peabody's romantic liaison with Ian McNab, Electronics Detective
Division had recently detonated. Which, if anyone had listened to me, Eve
thought bitterly, wouldn't be in many ugly pieces because it never would
have existed in the first place.

“Suck it in,
Peabody.”

“It's a
reasonable question on procedure, and has nothing whatsoever to do with
anything else.”

Peabody's tone
was stiff enough to communicate insult, hurt feelings, and annoyance. She was,
Eve thought, good at it. “If during the course of this investigation, I, as
primary investigator, deem EDD is needed for consult, I will so order.”

“You could
also request someone other than he who shall not be named,” Peabody muttered.

“Feeney runs
EDD. I don't tell Feeney which of his people to assign. And damn it, Peabody,
this case or another, you're going to end up working with McNab, which is why
you should never have let him bang you in the first place.”

“I can work
with him. It doesn't bother me a bit.” So saying, she stomped off the elevator
onto the twelfth floor. “I'm a professional, unlike some others who are always
cracking wise and coming to work in weird getups and showing off.”

At the door of
Bankhead's apartment, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “You calling me unprofessional,
Officer?”

“No, sir! I
was ...” Her stiff shoulders loosened, and humor slid back into her eyes. “I'd
never call your getups weird, Dallas, even though I'm pretty sure you're
wearing a guy's shirt.”

“If you're
finished with your snit, we'll go back on record. Using master to gain entrance
to victim's apartment,” Eve continued, and coded through the locks. She opened
the door, examined it. “Interior chain and snap bolt were not in use. Living
area lights are on dim. What do you smell, Peabody?”

“Ah ...
candles, maybe perfume.”

“What do you
see?”

“Living area,
nicely decorated and organized. The mood screen's on. Looks like a spring
meadow pattern. There are two wineglasses and an open bottle of red wine on the
sofa table, indicating the victim had company at some point in the evening.”

“Okay.” Though
she'd hoped Peabody would take it a little further, Eve nodded. “What do you
hear?”

“Music. Audio
system's playing. Violins and piano. I don't recognize the tune.”

“Not the tune,
the tone,” Eve said. “Romance. Take another look around. Everything's in place.
Neat, tidy, and as noted, organized. But she left a bottle of wine sitting
open, and used glasses sitting out? Why?”

“She didn't
have a chance to put them away.”

“Or turn off
the lights, the audio, the mood screen.” She stepped through, glanced into the
adjoining kitchen. The counters were clean, and empty but for the corkscrew,
the wine cork. “Who opened the wine, Peabody?”

“The most
likely conclusion would be her date. If she'd opened it, she would have, giving
the indication of the apartment, put the corkscrew away, dumped the cork in her
recycler.”

“Mmm. Living
area balcony doors closed and secured from inside. If this was self-termination
or an accidental fall, it wasn't from this point. Let's check the bedroom.”

“You don't
think it was self-termination or an accident.”

“I don't think
anything yet. What I know is the victim was a single woman who kept a very neat
apartment and that evidence indicates she spent at least a portion of this
evening at home with company.”

Eve turned
into the bedroom. The audio played here as well, dreamy, fluid notes that
seemed to drift on the breeze fluttering through the open balcony doors. The
bed was unmade, and the disordered sheets were strewn with pink rose petals. A
black dress, black undergarments, and black evening shoes were piled beside the
bed.

Candles,
guttering fragrantly in their own wax, were set around the room.

“Read the
scene,” Eve ordered.

“It appears as
if the victim engaged in or was about to engage in sexual intercourse prior to
her death. There are no signs of struggle here or in the living area, which
indicates the sex, or plans for the sex, were consensual.”

“This wasn't
sex, Peabody. This was seduction. We're going to need to find out who seduced
who. Record the scene, then get me those security discs.”

With a sealed
finger, Eve eased open the drawer of the bedside table. “Goodie drawer.”

“Sir?”

“Sex drawer,
Peabody. Single girl provisions, which in this case includes condoms. Victim
liked men. Couple bottles of tasty body oils, a vibrator for when
self-servicing is necessary or desired, and some vaginal lubricant. Fairly
standard, even conservative and straight goodies. No toys or aids here to
indicate victim leaned toward same-sex relationships.”

“So her date
was a man.”

“Or a woman
hoping to broaden Bankhead's horizons. We'll nail that down with the discs. And
maybe we get lucky with the ME's report and find some little soldiers in her.”

She stepped
into the adjoining bath. It was sparkling clean, the ribbon-trimmed hand towels
perfectly aligned. There were fancy soaps in a fancy dish, perfumed creams in
glass-and-silver jars. “My guess is her bed partner didn't hang around and wash
up. Get the sweepers up here,” she ordered. “Let's see if our Romeo left anything
behind.”

She opened the
mirror on the medicine cabinet, studied the contents. Normal over-the-counter
meds, nothing heavy. A six-month supply of twenty-eight day contraceptive
pills.

The drawer
beside the sink was packed, and meticulously organized, with cosmetic
enhancers. Lip dyes, lash lengtheners, face and body paints.

Bryna had
spent a lot of time in front of this mirror, Eve mused. If the little black dress, the wine, the candlelight were
anything to go by, she'd spent considerable time in front of it tonight.
Preparing herself for a man.

Moving to the
bedroom 'link, Eve played back the last call and stood, listening to Bryna
Bankhead, pretty in her little black dress, talk of her big plans for the
evening with a brunette she called CeeCee.

I'm a little
nervous, but mostly I'm just excited. We're finally going to meet. How do I
look?

You look
fabulous, Bry. You just remember real-life dating's different from
cyber-dating. Take it slow, and keep it public tonight, right?

Absolutely.
But I really do feel like I know him, CeeCee. We've got so much in common, and
we've been e-mailing for weeks. Besides, it was my idea to meet -- and his to
make it drinks in a public place so I'd feel more at ease. He's so considerate,
so romantic. God, I'm going to be
late. I hate being late. Gotta go.

Don't
forget. I want all the deets.

I'll tell
you all about it tomorrow. Wish me luck, CeeCee. I really think he could be the
one.

“Yeah,” Eve
murmured as she shut off the 'link. “So do I.”

CHAPTER TWO

In her office
at Cop Central, Eve reviewed the security discs of the apartment building on
the day of the murder. People came, people went. Residents, visitors. She
pegged slinky twin blondes who strolled across the lobby in tandem as licensed
companions. Double your pleasure, she thought as she watched one setting
up the next job on her pocket-link while the other noted down the split in her
daybook.

Bryna Bankhead
rushed in at six-forty-five, a couple of shopping bags in tow and a pretty
flush on her cheeks.

Happy, Eve thought. Excited. She wants to get upstairs,
take out her new stuff and play with it. Groom herself, primp, change her mind
about her outfit a few times. Maybe fix a quick bite to eat so her stomach
won't be too nervous.

Just a typical
single woman anticipating a date. Who doesn't know she'll be a statistic before
it's over.

She watched
Louise come in just before seven-thirty. She moved quickly, too, but then she
always did. There was no light of adventure or anticipation on her face, Eve
mused. She looked distracted, a little tired.

No shopping
bags for Dr. Dimatto, Eve noted. Just
her medical kit and a handbag as big as Idaho.

A
not-so-typical single woman, Eve thought, who looks as if she's already decided
she isn't going to enjoy the evening ahead of her.

And who
doesn't know she'll end it with a body broken at her feet.

Louise was
quicker than Bryna. She was striding out of the elevator, slicked into her
killer red dress, at eight-forty. Polished, she didn't look like the dedicated,
overworked and steely minded crusader.

She looked
sharp, sexy, female.

The guy coming
in as she was going out obviously agreed. He took a good long look at her ass
as Louise zipped out. She either didn't notice or didn't give a damn as she didn't
so much as glance back at him.

A kid of about
eighteen swaggered out of the elevator. He was dressed in solid black leather,
tip to toe, and carted an air scooter under his arm. He swung it down as he
shoved open the doors, leaped on with an agility and flash Eve had to admire,
and winged off into the night.

She sipped
coffee as she watched Bryna exit the building just before nine p.m. Nearly
running, Eve thought, risking a turned ankle in her date shoes because she
didn't want to be late. Her hair was styled in a glossy updo, like an ebony
tower. Her face, a delicate caramel color, was flushed with anticipation and
nerves. She carried a small evening bag and wore the pretty, flashing earrings.

“Check cab
pick ups within a block radius of the building, Peabody. She's in a hurry, so
unless she's meeting the guy close by, she'd spring for a cab.” She frowned as
she zipped through time, slowing whenever someone came in or out of the
building.

“She was a
good-looking woman,” Eve commented. “Seemed reasonably smart, had her own
place, decent job. Why does someone like that go fishing in the cyber-pool for
a date?”

“Easy for you
to say,” Peabody muttered and earned a narrowed stare. “Well, jeez, Dallas,
you're married. For the rest of us, it's a jungle out there, full of
apes and snakes and baboons.”

“You ever do
the cyber-thing?”

Peabody
shuffled her feet. “Maybe. And I don't want to talk about it.”

Amused, Eve
started the scan again. “I was single a hell of a lot longer than I've been
married. I never stooped to cyber-world.”

“Big deal when
you're tall and thin with jungle-cat eyes and have a sexy little dent in your
chin.”

“You coming
onto me, Peabody?”

“My love for
you is a fearsome thing, Dallas. But I've given up dating cops.”

“Good policy.
Ah, here they come. Freeze screen.”

The time read
twenty-three thirty-eight. In two hours plus, Bryna had obviously gotten very
cozy with her cyber date. They came in with their arms snugged around each
other's waists, and laughing.

“He looks
great,” Peabody decided as she leaned closer to the monitor. “Answer to a
maiden's prayer kind of thing. Tall, dark, and handsome.”

Eve grunted.
She judged the man to be about six one, running to about one-ninety. His dark
hair was swept back in a tightly curled mane that spilled over his shoulders.
His skin was poetically pale, and set off by glinting emerald studs at the
corner of his mouth and the high point of his right cheekbone. His eyes were
the same vivid green. A thin line of beard ran vertically from just below
center of his bottom lip to his chin.

He wore a dark
suit with a shirt, in that same jewel green, open at the collar. He carried a
black leather bag from a strap on his shoulder.

“Nice-looking
couple,” Peabody added. “She looks like she's knocked back a few alcoholic beverages.”

“More than
cocktails,” Eve corrected, then ordered the computer to zoom in on Bryna's
face. “She's got a chemical gleam in her eye. Him?” She zoomed onto the man's
face. “He's stone sober. Contact the morgue. I want a priority put on her tox
screen. Computer?”

Working ..
.

“Yeah, yeah,
let's try a little multitasking.” Since, at long last, she had a new unit, she
had hope. “Run current image of male on-screen through identification banks. I
want a name.”

Opening
identification banks. Request for citywide, state, national, global?

Eve patted the
side of the machine. “Now, that's what I like to hear. Begin with New York
City. Continue disc run, normal view.

Working ...

The computer
hummed quietly, and the image onscreen began to move again. Outside the
elevator, the man lifted Bryna's hand, pressed his lips to the palm.

“End run,
begin run on elevator two, twenty-three forty.”

The image
flashed off, the next flashed on. Eve watched the mating process continue on
the ride to the twelfth floor. The man nibbled on her fingers, leaned in to
whisper something in her ear. It was Bryna who made the advances, pulling him
against her, aggressively pressing her body, her lips to his.

It was her
hand that moved between their bodies, groping.

When the doors
opened, they circled out, still locked together. Once again Eve ordered a disc
change and studied the couple as they walked to her apartment door. Bryna
fumbled a bit as she uncoded her locks. She lost her balance slightly, swayed
against him. When she stepped inside, he stood at the threshold.

The perfect
gentleman, Eve mused. He had a warm
smile on his face, a question in his eyes. Are you going to ask me in ?

She watched
Bryna's arm shoot out, watched her hand fist in the man's jacket. She pulled
him inside, and the door shut behind them.

“She was
making the moves.” Peabody frowned at the empty hallway now on-screen.

“Yeah, she was
making the moves.”

“I don't mean
she deserved to die. I just mean he wasn't pushing. Even when she got
aggressive in the elevator, he didn't push. A lot of guys -- hell, most, guys
-- would've had a hand under her skirt at that point.”

“Most guys
don't sprinkle rose petals over the sheets.” She fast-forwarded, ordered
full-stop when Bryna's apartment door opened.

“Note time
unidentified male exits victim's apartment. Oh-one thirty-six. Same time the
nine-eleven's logged. Louise said she checked for a pulse. Give her a few
seconds for shock, a few seconds to run to the body, then check the pulse, then
get her pocket-link out and make the call. And that's all the time it took him
to walk away from the balcony, move through the apartment and out the door.
Computer, continue run.”

“He's
shaking,” Peabody murmured.

“Yeah, and
he's sweating.” But he didn't run, Eve noted. His eyes darted right,
left, right as he hurried down the hall to the elevator. But he didn't run.

She watched
him ride down, his back pressed to the wall, the leather bag clutched against
his chest. But he was thinking, she mused. Thinking carefully enough to take
the elevator to the basement instead of the lobby, to exit the building by the
delivery port instead of the front doors.

“There was no
sign of struggle in the apartment. And between time of death, and the time she
hit, no time for him to put it back to rights if there had been a fight. But
she was dead before she went over. Before he threw her over,” Eve added. “She'd
been using illegals, but there were no illegals in her apartment. Let's put a
bug in the lab's ear on the contents of the wine bottle and glasses. Then go
home, catch some sleep.”

“You're going
to call Feeney? You need EDD to walk through her computer and find the e-mails
she and the suspect exchanged, trace the account.”

“That's
right.” Eve rose, and though she knew it was a mistake, ordered one more cup of
coffee from her AutoChef. “Put the personal garbage in the recycler, and do the
job.”

“I'd
appreciate it if you'd give McNab that same order. Sir.”

Eve turned
back. “He hassling you?”

“Yes. Not
exactly.” She huffed out a breath. “No.”

“Which is it?”

“He just makes
sure I know about all the hot women he's sleeping with, and how he's
practically doing handsprings since I cut him loose. And he doesn't even have
the decency to do it to my face. He just makes sure I hear about it.”

“It sounds
like he's moved on. You did cut him loose, Peabody. And you're hanging with
Charles.”

“It's not like
that with Charles,” Peabody insisted, speaking of the sexy licensed companion
who'd become her friend. And had never been her lover. “I told you.”

“But you
didn't tell McNab. Your business,” Eve said quickly when Peabody started to
speak. “And I don't want any part of it. McNab wants to screw every female in
the five boroughs, and it doesn't interfere with the job, it's none of my
business. And none of yours. Leave the priority requests for the morgue and the
lab, then go home. Report in at eight hundred hours.”

Alone, Eve sat
back at her desk. “Computer, status on identification search.”

Search
eighty-eight-point-two percent complete. No matches.

“Expand search
statewide.”

Affirmative.
Working ...

Eve sat back
with her coffee, and hoped for a name. Hoped for quick justice for Bryna
Bankhead.

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

Despite the
caffeine, Eve managed a more restful sleep on her office floor than she had in
the big, empty bed at home. When she woke, she widened the thus far negative
identity search. Taking yet another cup of coffee with her into the locker
room, she washed up, finger-combed her hair, and rolled up the sleeves of
Roarke's shirt.

It was just
after eight when she walked into Captain Feeney's office in EDD. He was
standing at his own AutoChef with his back to her. Like Eve, he was in his
shirtsleeves, with his weapon harness in place. His wiry, ginger-colored hair
had probably seen a comb that morning, but looked no tidier than hers.

She stepped
in, sniffed the air. “What's that smell?”

He whirled
around, his long, basset hound face covered with surprise. And, she thought,
guilt.

“Nothing.
What's up?”

She sniffed
again. “Doughnuts. You got doughnuts in here.”

“Shut up, shut
up.” He stalked by her to shut the door. “You want the whole squad pouring in
here?” Knowing a closed door wouldn't be enough, he locked it. “What do you
want?”

“I want a
doughnut.”

“Look, Dallas,
the wife's gone on some health kick. You can't get a decent bite to eat in my
house these days with all the tofu this and rehydrated vegetable that. A man's
gotta have some fat and sugar once in awhile or his system suffers for it.”

“I'm with you,
so's the crowd. Gimme a doughnut.”

“Goddamn it.”
He strode over to the AutoChef, popped it open. Inside were a half dozen
doughnuts, fragrant in the low heat.

“Holy shit. Fresh
doughnuts.”

“Bakery down
the block does a few dozen reals every morning. You know what they charge for
one of these bastards?”

Quick as a
whiplash, Eve reached in, snagged one, bit in. “Worth it,” she said around a
mouthful of fat and cream.

“Just keep it
down. You start making yummy noises, they'll beat the door in.” He took a
doughnut and blissfully chewed the first bite. “Nobody wants to live forever,
right? I tell the wife, hey, I'm a cop. Cops face death every day.”

“Damn
straight. You got jelly, too?”

Before she
could reach in, he closed the AutoChef. Smartly. “So, being a cop, facing
death, all that, who gives a horse's ass about pumping a little fat into the
arteries?”

“Really
superior fat, too.” She licked sugar off her fingers. She could've blackmailed
him into a second doughnut, but figured she'd just get sick off it. “Got a
sidewalk splat last night.”

“Leaper?”

“Nope. Already
dead when she went off. I'm waiting for the ME and some lab reports, but it
looks like sexual homicide. She had a date with a cyber-guy, e-mail lovers. I
got a visual of him going in and out of her place, but the ID search hasn't hit
a match. I need you to track him through her computer.”

“You got the
unit?”

“Yeah. I'm
holding it in Evidence. Victim's Bankhead, Bryna. Case-file H-78926B.”

“I'll get
somebody on it.”

“Appreciate
it.” She paused at the door. “Feeney, if you bring McNab in, maybe you could
ask him to, I don't know, tone it down around Peabody.”

The glow the
doughnut brought to his face faded into painful embarrassment. “Aw, jeez,
Dallas.”

“I know, I
know. But if I have to deal with her, you've got to deal with him.”

“We could lock
them in a room together, let them hash it out.”

“We'll keep
that as an option. Let me know as soon as you find something on the victim's
unit.”

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

The search
wasn't getting anywhere. Without much hope, Eve bumped it up to global. She
wrote and filed her preliminary report for her commander, then shot it off
through the interoffice system. After ordering Peabody to keep pushing on the
lab and morgue, she headed to the courthouse to give her testimony in a case on
trial.

Two and a half
hours later, she stormed out, damning all lawyers. She flipped on her
communicator and tagged Peabody. “Status.”

“Test results
still pending, sir.”

“Fuck that.”

“Rough day in
court, Dallas?”

“Defense
council seems to think the NYPSD splattered the victim's blood all over his
innocent client's hotel room, clothes, person just to give psychopathic
tourists who stab their wives a couple dozen times during a marital spat a bad
name.”

“Well, it is
tough on the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Ha-ha.”

“We have
identified the woman Bankhead spoke with on the 'link the night she died.
CeeCee Plunkett. She worked with the victim in the lingerie department at
Saks.”

“Grab transpo.
Meet me there.”

“Yes, sir, and
may I suggest their lovely sixth-floor cafe for lunch? You need protein.”

“I had a
doughnut.” With an evil smile, Eve broke transmission on Peabody's shocked and
envious gasp.

Being caught
in the hell of lunch-shift traffic did little to improve her mood. Cars bumped
and churned in place for so long she considered the possibility of just leaving
her vehicle where it was and hoofing it across town.

Until she
studied the jammed sidewalks.

Even the sky
was packed -- ad blimps, airbuses, tourist trams vying for air space. The noise
was ridiculous, but for some reason, the sheer weight of sound smoothed out the
rough edges. So much so that when she was trapped at a light at the corner of
Madison and Thirty-ninth, she leaned out the window and spoke pleasantly to the
glide-cart operator.

“Give me a
tube of Pepsi.”

“Small,
medium, or large, fair lady?”

Her eyebrows
lifted, disappeared under her fringe of bangs. An operator that friendly was
either a droid or new. “Make it large.” She dug in her pocket for loose change.

When he leaned
down to make the exchange, she saw he was neither droid nor new. She pegged him
at a well-tended ninety, and his smile showed an appreciation of dental hygiene
far superior to most glide-carters.

“Beautiful
day, isn't it?”

She looked at
the traffic, at the knots of vehicles that were all but blocking out the sky in
this sector. “You gotta be kidding.”

He only smiled
again. “Every day you're alive's a beauty, miss.”

She thought of
Bryna Bankhead. “Guess you're right.”

She popped the
tube, sucked on it contemplatively as she inched her way up Madison. At
Fifty-first, she cut over, double parked, and engaged her ON DUTY sign.

And girding
her loins, strode into Saks and the gauntlet of cosmetic shills.

High-fashion
droids glided by the doors in a pattern designed to dazzle the eye, and make it
impossible to break through unscathed. Backing them up were human consultants
who manned booths, counters, or patrolled the aisle looking, in Eve's opinion,
for escapees. The air was choked with scent.

A female droid
with a starburst of magenta hair slithered across the floor to block Eve's
forward progress.

“Good
afternoon, and welcome to Saks. Today our premiere fragrance -- “

“One drop goes
on me, just one, and I'll ram that spritzer down your throat,” she warned as
the droid moved in for the kill.

“Indeed,
madam, it only takes a drop of Orgasma to entice the lover of your dreams.”

Eve flipped
her jacket aside, tapped her fingers on her weapon. “It only takes one blast of
this to put you in the recycle bin, Red. Now back off.”

The droid
backed off, with satisfying speed. Eve heard the call go up for Security as she
plowed through the wall of customers and consultants. She flipped out her badge
as a pair of uniformed droids rushed toward her.

“NYPSD.
Official business. Keep those damn smell pushers off me.”

“Yes,
Lieutenant. May we be of some assistance?”

“Yeah.” She
tucked her badge in her pocket. “Where's the lingerie department?”

At least, Eve
thought as she got off on the proper floor, nobody up here rushed you waving
underwear. Still, selling sex seemed to be the order of the day as model droids
roamed the department in foundation garments or night-wear. Human clerks, at
least, wore real clothes.

She spotted
CeeCee Plunkett immediately and waited until the woman completed bagging up a
sale.

“Ms.
Plunkett?”

“Yes, may I
help you?”

Eve took out
her badge again. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

She had rosy
cheeks, and they went white. She had pretty blue eyes, and they went wide. “Oh
God. Oh God, it's Bry. Something's happened to Bryna. She didn't come into
work, she doesn't answer her 'link. She's been hurt.”

“Is there
somewhere we can talk?”

“I -- yes.”
Pressing a hand to her temple, CeeCee looked around. “The -- the dressing area,
but I'm not supposed to leave my station. I...”

“Hey.” Eve
snagged a droid in a sheer black bra and panties. “Take over here. Which way?”
she asked CeeCee and came around the counter to take her arm.

“Back here. Is
she in the hospital? Which hospital? I'll go see her.”

Inside one of
the small changing cubes, Eve closed the door. There was a tiny padded stool in
the corner, and she guided CeeCee to it. “Sit down.”

“It's bad.”
She gripped Eve's arm. “It's very bad.”

“Yes, I'm
sorry.” There would never be an easy way. There was only the fast way -- a
quick stab to the heart rather than slicing inch by inch. “Bryna Bankhead was
killed early this morning.”

CeeCee shook
her head, kept shaking it slowly as the first tear trickled down her cheek.
“She had an accident?”

“We're trying
to determine what happened.”

“I talked to
her. I talked to her yesterday, last night. She was going out on a date. Please
tell me what happened to Bry.”

The media had
already reported the death, and the circumstances, so far as they were known.
If they hadn't ferreted out the name by now, Eve thought, it wouldn't take them
much longer.

“She ... fell
from her balcony.”

“Fell?” CeeCee
started to surge to her feet, but only sank back down again. “That can't be.
That just can't be. There's a safety wall.”

“We're
investigating, Ms. Plunkett. You'd help a great deal if you'd answer some
questions for me. On record?”

“She wouldn't
have fallen.” There was anger now, and insult, pricking through the shock. “She
wasn't stupid or clumsy. She wouldn't have fallen.”

Eve took out
her recorder. “I'm going to find out what happened. My name is Dallas. Lieutenant
Eve Dallas,” she said for CeeCee, and the record. “I'm primary investigator in
the matter of the death of Bryna Bankhead. I'm interviewing you, CeeCee
Plunkett, at this time, because you were a friend of the deceased. You had a
conversation with her via 'link last night, a few minutes before nine o'clock,
just before she left her apartment.”

“Yes. Yes. She
called me. She was so nervous, so excited.” Her voice went thick. “Oh, Bry.”

“Why was she
nervous and excited?”

“She had a
date. Her first date with Dante.”

“What's his
full name?”

“I don't
know.” She dug in her jacket pocket for a tissue, then tore it to pieces rather
than mopping her face. “They met online. They didn't know each other's last
names, that's part of the deal. It's for safety.”

“How long had
she been in contact with him?”

“Maybe three
weeks now.”

“How did they
meet?”

“A poetry chat
room. There was this discussion of great romantic poetry through the centuries
and ... Oh God.” She leaned forward, buried her face in her hands. “She was my
best friend. How could this happen to her?”

“Would she
confide in you?”

“We told each
other everything. You know how it is with girlfriends.”

More or
less, Eve thought. “This was, to your
knowledge, her first date with Dante?”

“Yes. That's
why she was so excited. She bought a new dress, and shoes. And these great
earrings ...”

“And would it
be usual for her to bring a first date back to her apartment for sex?”

“Absolutely
not.” CeeCee gave a watery laugh. “Bry's got too many old-fashioned hang-ups
about sex and relationships and stages. A guy had to pass what she called the
Thirty Day Test before she'd go to bed with him. I used to tell her nothing
stays fresh for a month, but she ...” CeeCee trailed off. “What are you
saying?”

“I'm only
trying to get a picture. Did she do illegals?”

Though tears
were still glistening in them, CeeCee's eyes went hard. “I don't like your
questions, Lieutenant.”

“They have to
be asked. Look at me. Look at me,” Eve repeated. “I don't want to hurt her, or
you. I have to know who she was, to do right by her.”

“No, she
didn't do illegals,” CeeCee snapped. “She took good care of herself, inside and
out. That's the way she was. She was smart and she was fun and she was decent.
And she did not get crazy on illegals and fall off her goddamn balcony.
She didn't jump either, so don't even think about trying to pass this off as
suicide. If she went off that balcony, it's because somebody pushed her off.
It's because ...”

As her own
words sank in, CeeCee's anger flared. “Someone killed her. Someone killed Bry.
That -- that Dante. He, he followed her home after their date. And he got into
her apartment somehow, and he killed her. He killed her,” she repeated and dug
her fingers into Eve's wrist. “You find him.”

“I'll find
him,” Eve promised. “CeeCee, I don't know all the facts yet, but I will. Tell
me what you can about this man she knew as Dante. Everything you remember Bryna
told you.”

“I can't take
it in. I'm sorry, I just can't.” She rose, walked slowly to the pitcher of ice
water on the dressing room table. When the pitcher shook and sloshed, Eve went
over, poured the glass.

“Thanks.”

“Take a
minute. Sit down, drink your water, and take a minute.”

“I'm okay.
I'll be okay.” But she had to hold the glass with both hands to drink. “He was
supposed to own his own business. He was rich. She said he didn't brag about
it, but she could tell from the little things he said. Places he'd been, like
Paris and Moscow, the Olympus Resort, Bimini, I don't know.”

“What kind of
business?”

“They didn't
get into specifics about that. Just like he wasn't supposed to know she worked
here. But he did.”

Eve's gaze
sharpened. “How do you know that?”

“Because he
sent her pink roses here last week.”

Pink roses,
Eve thought. Pink rose petals.

“What else?”

“He spoke
Italian, and um, French and Spanish. Romance languages,” she added, smearing
tears and mascara with the backs of her hands. “Bry was all caught up in the
romance of it. She said he had the most romantic soul. And I'd say, well great,
but what about his face? She'd just laugh and say that appearances didn't
matter when hearts spoke to each other. But it wouldn't hurt her feelings any
if he looked as good as he sounded.”

Steadier, she
turned the glass in her hands. “Lieutenant ... Did he rape her?”

“I don't
know.” Eve drew out a picture she'd printed off disc. “Do you recognize this
man?”

CeeCee studied
Dante's face. “No,” she said, wearily now. “I've never seen him before. This is
him, isn't it? Well. Well. I guess he looked as good as he sounded. The son of
a bitch. The vicious son of a bitch.” She began shredding the photo, and Eve
did nothing to stop her.

“Where were
they meeting for drinks last night?”

“The goddamn
Rainbow Room. Bry picked it out because she thought it was romantic.”

When Eve came
out of the dressing area, she found Peabody staring, a bit wistfully, at a
display of lacy bodysuits.

“Those
wouldn't be comfortable for more than five minutes,” Eve pointed out.

“If it works,
you wouldn't have it on over five minutes. Droid said you were back in the
dressing area with Plunkett.”

“Yeah. Dude
goes by the name of Dante, heavy on the poetry and pink rosebuds. I'll fill you
in.”

“Where are we
going?”

“The morgue,
by way of the Rainbow Room.”

“That sounds
so ... weird.”

It was, if you
compared the chrome and marble temple of one with the dingy white box of the
other. But the best Eve could get from the landmark lounge was the names and
addresses of the waitstaff on duty the night before.

She had more
immediate luck at the dead house.

“Ah, my
favorite cop come to scold me.” Morris, Chief Medical Examiner, switched off
his laser scalpel and beamed. He wore his long, dark hair in a half dozen
braids, covered now with a clear surgical cap. A natty plum-colored shirt and
slacks were protected from distressing splashes of body fluids by a transparent
lab coat.

“That's not my
case you're slicing up there, Morris.”

“No, more's
the pity.” He glanced down at the body of a young black man. “This unfortunate
fellow appears to have backed into -- numerous times -- a sharp, long-bladed
instrument. You'd think he'd have stopped after the first, but no. He just
continued to ram himself back into the knife until he keeled over dead.”

“Slow
learner.” She pursed her lips as she studied the corpse's very impressive
hard-on. “From the looks of that boner he's carrying, I'd make an educated
guess that he'd popped some Exotica laced with Zeus. The combo can make a guy's
tool stay in use long after he's gone flat otherwise.”

“I tend to
agree, particularly since your associate Detective Baxter reports that our
recently deceased was employing that tool enthusiastically on his brother's
wife.”

“Oh yeah? And
I guess he just decided to stop fucking and dance into a knife as a change of
pace.”

“According to
his brother, and the wife who is still among the living and recovering from a
nasty fall that broke her jaw.”

“Takes all
kinds. If Baxter's got the brother in custody, and you've got cause of death,
why aren't you working on my case?”

“Come with
me.” Morris crooked a finger and walked through a set of swinging doors into
another autopsy room. What was left of Bryna Bankhead was the single occupant.
She was laid on a stainless steel slab with a thin green sheet covering her to
the neck.

That would
have been Morris's touch, Eve thought. He could be very respectful with the
dead.

“I imagine she
was an attractive young woman once.”

Eve stared
down at the ruined face. She thought of the bathroom mirror, the ruthlessly
organized drawer of enhancements. “Yeah. Tell me how she died, Morris.”

“I think you
know. Your time of death measurement was accurate. She was spared the fear of
falling, the insult of the pavement, even the knowledge that she was dying.” He
touched sealed fingertips, very gently, to her hair. “She'd ingested, over a
period of two and a half to three hours, more than two ounces of the synthetic
hormonibital-six, an expensive and very difficult to acquire controlled
substance.”

“Street name
Whore. An inhibition blocker,” Eve murmured. “Commonly used in date rape once
upon a time.”

“Not
commonly,” Morris corrected. “Its derivatives are more common, and much less
potent and effective. What she had in her was pure. Two ounces, Dallas, would
have a street value of more than a quarter million. If you could find it on the
street, which you can't. I haven't come across traces of it in a body for more
than fifteen years.”

“I heard about
it when I was in school. Mostly urban legend shit.”

“And most of
it was urban legend shit.”

“Did it kill
her? An OD?”

“Not by
itself. The combination with alcohol was dangerous, but not fatal. But our hero
went overboard. Half the amount he slipped her would've been enough to ensure
her full cooperation. What she had in her would, most likely, have kept her
under for eight, maybe ten hours. And she'd wake up with the mother of all
hangovers. Headache, vomiting, the shakes, blackouts, lost time. It would take
up to seventy-two hours to purge her system.”

It made Eve
sick to think it. “She was spared that, too. How?”

“He gave her
too much. It would make her lethargic. I'm assuming he wanted a more active
fuck because he doctored the last glass of wine with a little cocktail of
aneminiphine-colax-B. Wild Rabbit.”

“Covered his
bases, didn't he?” she said quietly.

“It bombards
the nervous and respiratory systems, and hers was already compromised. The
combination overtaxed her heart. It gave out on her within twenty minutes of
ingestion. She'd have been too doped by the earlier doses of Whore to know what
was happening.”

“Could she
have taken it willingly at that point?”

Gently, Morris
lifted the sheet over Bryna's face. “After the first ounce of inhibition
blocker, nothing this girl did was willing.”

“He drugged
her, he raped her, and the combination killed her,” Eve said. “Then he tossed
her out the window like a used doll in an attempt to cover up what happened.”

“In my
esteemed and renowned medical opinion, that's the scenario.”

“Now make my
day, Morris, and tell me he left sperm in her. Tell me you got his DNA.”

Morris's face
went bright as a boy's. “Oh yeah, I got it. You bring him in, Dallas, and I'll
help you lock the cage.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Sick bastard
creep ought to have his balls scooped off with a rusty spoon.”

Eve settled
back in her car. “Don't hold back, Peabody. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Goddamn it,
Dallas, it got to me in there, looking at her on that slab, remembering how
pretty she was, how excited when she called her pal about going out to meet
this fuckhead. Thinking she was meeting someone romantic and, damn it, nice.
Someone nice and the whole time he's planning to ...”

“Fuck her to
death? I don't know that he planned that going in, but that's how it worked out.
Could be we get him on Murder One, using the illegals as the murder weapon.
More likely, it's going to Second Degree. And don't blow your cortex, Peabody,
we wrap him on that, add in the sexual assault and his attempt to dispose of
the evidence, he's not going to see daylight again.”

“It's not
enough.” She shifted in her seat, appalling them both because there were tears
in her eyes. “Sometimes it doesn't seem to be enough.”

Eve stared
through the windshield to give them both time for Peabody to pull herself
together. A pack of kids, sprung from school, were cruising over the crosswalk
on airboards, wreaking havoc on the bipeds they wove through.

There was
something painfully innocent, painfully alive about the flash and color of
them, a half a block away from a house of dead.

“It's enough,”
Eve said, “because it's what we can do. Our job is to stand for Bryna Bankhead
and bring in the man who killed her. After that...” She remembered her session
in court, the defense attorney's slippery twist on the law. “After that, we
trust the system to give her justice, and we put it away. You don't put it
away, they pile up. The dead pile up,” she added when Peabody stared at her,
“until you can't see past them, and you can't do the job.”

“Do you put it
away? Can you?”

It was a
question Eve tried not to ask herself -- and asked herself too often. “A lot of
murder cops, they've only got so many years in them. So many dead. Then it
starts eating at them until they're used up. I can't do anything else but this,
so it's not going to use me up.” She let out a long breath. “But in a perfect
world, we'd have the rusty spoon option.”

“When I
started working with you, I thought Homicide was the most important thing I
could do. It's been about a year now. I still think that.”

“Okay.” She
jammed her way into traffic like a battering ram. “I need to make a stop down
at the Canal Street Clinic. Let's see if the boys in EDD have made any
progress.”

She used the
in-dash 'link to contact Feeney's office, and felt Peabody stiffen when McNab's
pretty face appeared on-screen.

“Hey,
Lieutenant.” Eve watched his gaze shift over, saw his lips stretch into a smile
every bit as stiff as Peabody's shoulders. “Peabody.”

“I need your
captain,” Eve told him.

“He just
stepped out.”

“Tell him to
tag me as soon as he comes back.”

“Hold it, hold
it, hold it.” His face filled the screen as he leaned in. “Don't eject till you
hear the tune. The captain put me on your electronic account search.”

Eve punched
her vehicle through a narrow opening, switched lanes, and gained half a block.
“Pretty basic e-work for a hotshot, isn't it?”

“Yeah, well,
it got bumped up to hotshot level when the tech ran into some snags. Your
cyber-Casanova put in some blocks and walls. I scaled them, being a hotshot,
and came up with an address.”

“Are you going
to stop bragging long enough to give it to me?”

“I would,
Lieutenant, but you'd be wasting your time. Address is in the Carpathian
Mountains.”

“Where the
hell is that?”

“Mountain
range, Eastern Europe. I know,” McNab said, with a frisky toss of his long
blond ponytail, “because I looked it up. And before you ask me what the hell
our perp's doing on a mountain in Eastern Europe, he's not. It's a dummy.
Address is bogus as my cousin Sheila's tits.”

“It doesn't
sound like you scaled a wall to me, McNab.”

“Dallas, I
scaled a fucking mountain here. I got a bounce from the fake address, and I'm
following the echo. Should have it nailed in another hour.”

“Then don't
talk to me until you set down the hammer. And McNab? Any guy who knows anything
about his cousin's tits is a perv.”

She broke
transmission on his hoot of laughter. “He may be irritating,” Eve said to
Peabody, “but he's good. He'll nail it. And if it's taking him this long, that
tells me our suspect is an above-average hacker. He protected himself going in,
which in court will be, to overuse an image, another nail in his coffin.”

She glanced at
Peabody's profile. “Don't sulk.”

“I'm not
sulking.”

Hissing, Eve
flipped down the passenger visor so the mirror dropped down. “Look at your
face. You want him to know you get bent when you have to deal with him? Snag a
little pride, Peabody.”

Studying
herself, Peabody saw sulk move into pout mode at Eve's words. She flipped the
visor back up. “I was just thinking, that's all.”

Eve made the
swing onto Canal, pitching through its bazaarlike sector where the offerings
were plentiful and cheap and the Black Market did the lion's share of business.
Tourists were routinely scammed, then they filed complaints against shops that
changed venues more often and with greater efficiency than a tent circus.

Then again,
Eve figured if you were stupid enough to believe you could buy a Rolex for the
same price as a large pizza, you deserved the skinning.

Within a few
blocks, the carnival gave way to the dumping ground for the homeless and the
disenfranchised. Sidewalk sleepers erected their boxes and tents in pitiful
little communities of despair. Those with beggar's licenses, and many without
them, wandered across town to shill enough credit tokens to buy a bottle of
home brew to get them through another night.

Those who
didn't make it through the night would be transported to the morgue by the
NYPSD unit not-so-affectionately known as the Sidewalk Scoopers.

No matter how
many were loaded up, cremated at city expense, more came to replace them.

It was a cycle
no one, particularly the city fathers, seemed to be able to break. And it was
here, in the midst of the filth and despair, that Louise Dimatto ran the Canal
Street Clinic. She didn't break the cycle either, Eve thought, but
she made the spin on it a little less painful for some.

In an area
where the shoes on your feet were considered fair game, it was a risky business
to park a car unless you then surrounded it by droids wearing body armor and
hefting rocket lasers. Patrol cars were manned by exactly that.

The good news
was, parking places were plentiful.

Eve pulled to
the curb behind what might have been a sedan at one time. But since all that
was left of it was part of a chassis and a broken windshield, she couldn't be
sure.

She stepped
out, and in the hot, stinking steam that gushed up from a subway vent, engaged
all locks, activated all alarms. Then she stood on the sidewalk, scanned the
street in all directions. There were a few loiterers hulking in doorways and
one pitifully skinny street LC trying to drum up customers.

“I'm
Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” She didn't shout it, but raised her voice enough to
cause faces to shift in her direction. “This piece of shit is my official city
vehicle. If said piece of shit is not in this exact spot, in this exact
condition when I come back, I'll bring a squad of door-bangers down here to
roust every living soul in a five-block radius, along with illegals-sniffer
dogs who will find and confiscate all the goodies you've got stashed. I
guarantee it will be a very unpleasant experience.”

“Bitch cop!”

Tracking the
direction of the comment, Eve lifted her gaze to a third-floor window in a
building across the street. “Officer Peabody, will you verify the asshole's
opinion?”

“Yes, sir,
Lieutenant, the asshole is correct. You are the supreme bitch cop.”

“And what will
happen if anyone lays hands on my vehicle?”

“You will make
their life a living hell. You will make their friends' lives a living hell,
their family's lives a living hell. And, sir, you will make people's lives who
are complete strangers to them a living hell.”

“Yes,” Eve
said with a cold and satisfied smile. “Yes, I will.” She turned away and walked
to the door of the clinic.

“And you'll
enjoy it.”

“Okay,
Peabody, point made.” She pulled open the door, stepped inside.

For an instant
she thought she'd walked into the wrong door. From her visits over the past
winter, she remembered the jammed waiting room, the dingy walls, the tattered,
inadequate furniture. Here instead was a wide space partitioned by a low wall
where glossy green plants thrived in simple clay pots. Chairs and sofas were
ranged on either side, and though nearly every seat was taken, there was a
sense of order.

The walls were
a pale, pretty green decorated with framed pictures obviously drawn by
children.

There was the
hacking, wheezing, the soft whimpering of the ill and the injured. But there
was not, as there had been the previous winter, an underlying sense of anger
and hopelessness.

Even as she
scanned the room a woman in a jumpsuit the same color as the walls came through
a doorway. “Mrs. Lasio, the doctor will see you now.”

At the shift
in patients, Eve crossed over to the reception window. Through it she could see
updated equipment and the same sense of ordered efficiency that permeated the
waiting areas.

There was a
young man at the station with a face as cheerful and harmless as a daisy. He
couldn't have been more than twenty, Eve thought as he beamed up at her.

“Good
afternoon. How can we help you today?”

“I need to see
Doctor Dimatto.”

“Yes, ma'am.
I'm afraid Doctor Dimatto is fully booked for the rest of this afternoon. If
this is a medical emergency -- “

“It's personal
business.” Eve laid her badge on the counter. “Official business. If she's tied
up, have her contact me when she's free. Lieutenant Dallas, Cop Central.”

“Oh,
Lieutenant Dallas. Doctor Dimatto said you might come by. She's with a patient,
but if you don't mind waiting just a few minutes? You can wait in her office,
and I'll tell her you're here.”

“Fine.”

He buzzed her
through the door. She saw what she assumed were examining rooms on either side
of a hallway, and the hallway opened into a wide pass-through where lab
equipment stood on counters. From somewhere nearby, she heard a child laughing.

“You guys
expanded.”

“Yes. Dr.
Dimatto was able to purchase the building that adjoined the original clinic.”
Still beaming smiles he led them across the pass-through, into another hallway.
“She expanded and updated the clinic and its services and added pediatrics. We
have six doctors now, two full-time and four on rotation, and a fully equipped
lab.”

He opened a
door. “Doctor Dimatto is the angel of Canal Street. Please, help yourself to
the AutoChef. She'll be with you as soon as she can.”

Louise's
office hadn't changed much, Eve noted. It was still small, still cramped, still
crowded. And reminded Eve very much of her own space at Central.

“Jeez, she's
really done something here,” Peabody commented. “It had to run her a couple
million.”

“I guess.” And
since Eve had only donated -- okay, bribed Louise with -- a half a million for
the clinic, she figured the angel of Canal Street had done some very intense,
very successful fund-raising in a very short amount of time.

“This place is
better equipped, and I bet better run, than my local health center.” Peabody
pursed her lips. “I might switch.”

“Yeah, well.”
To Eve's mind one health facility was the same as another. They were all voids
of hell. “You got an e-memo on you? We'll just leave the doctor a message. I
want to get back to Central.”

“Maybe.
Somewhere.” And as Peabody dug into her pockets, Louise rushed in.

“Got five.
Need coffee.” She made a beeline for the AutoChef. “Fill me in while I refuel.”

“Did you know
Bryna Bankhead?”

“No.”

“Picture
Peabody.” Eve took the ID photo Peabody took from her file bag, held it out.
“Recognize her?”

Louise drank
coffee with one hand, dragged her other through her hair as she frowned at the
image. A stethoscope and a red lollipop peeked out of her lab coat pocket.
“Yes. I'd ridden in the elevator with her now and again, seen her in the local
markets where I shop. I suppose I might have spoken to her, the way you do with
neighbors you don't have time to know. Was she murdered?”

“Yeah.” Eve
held out a copy of the suspect's image. “Recognize him?”

“No.” Louise
set down her coffee, took the photo for a closer look. “No, I've never seen him
before. He killed her? Why?”

Eve handed the
photos back to Peabody. “You ever treat anybody for sex-inducement drugs?
Whore, Rabbit?”

“Yes. In my ER
rotation we'd have somebody coming down off Rabbit a few times a month. Mostly
Rabbit clones, or Exotica/Zeus combo, because the real's so pricey. I never
dealt with Whore, don't know anybody who has. You study it, and its derivatives
in illegals training, but it's on the inactive list.”

“Not anymore.”

“Is that what
he did to her? Doped her with Whore? Whore and Rabbit. Jesus Christ.”
She rubbed her hands over her face. “Mixed with alcohol, I take it. Why didn't
he just blast her brains out with a laser?”

“Maybe you
could poke around, ask some of your doctor friends if they've seen any
re-emergence of Whore.”

“I can do
that. You know, a man had to come up with the street name for that crap. You
know how it started?”

“No, how?”

“As an
experimental treatment for phobias and conditions like social anxiety disorder.
It was a little too good at it.”

“Meaning?”

“It also had
an affect on the hormones. It was discovered that it worked more effectively as
an aid in sexual disorders. In diluted and carefully monitored doses, it could
and did enhance sexual desire and function. From there, it went into use as an
aide for training licensed companions. Though non-addictive, it was soon found to
be dangerously unstable. Which, naturally, meant it became desirable on the
street, particularly among your more well-heeled college boys and junior execs
who would slip a dose into their dream girl's drink to loosen her up.” She
washed the rising rage back down her throat with coffee.

“That's how it
got its name,” she continued, “as mixed with alcohol it tends to loosen the
system up enough so the ingestor would be amenable to being fucked naked on the
ice rink at Rockefeller Center. The ingestor wouldn't necessarily have the
motor coordination left to actively participate, and would unlikely remember
doing so, but she'd be damn amenable to suggestion.”

“Add Rabbit?”

“Oh, she'd
participate with the entire U.S. Marine Corps, until she passed out cold, until
her heart rate went off the charts and her brain-wave pattern flattened.”

“A doctor
would know that,” Eve prompted. “A chemist, pharmacist, nurse, med tech, anyone
with a working knowledge of pharmaceuticals would know the combination was
fatal?”

“Yeah, anyone
should. Unless he or she is a moron, or just didn't give a shit as long as it
was fun while it lasted.”

“Okay, ask
around. If anything strikes you, get in touch.”

“You can bank
on it.”

“You did a
nice job around here,” Eve added.

“We like to
think so.” Louise finished off the coffee, two-pointed the cup in the recycle
bin. “Your three million went a long way.”

“Three
million?”

“I was ready
to dive into the half million we agreed on. Didn't expect the bonus.”

“When...” Eve
ran her tongue around her teeth. “When did I give you the bonus?”

Louise opened
her mouth, closed it again. Smiled. “Now why do I think you don't have a clue?”

“Refresh me,
Louise. When did I give you three million dollars?”

“Never. But
your rep did, late February.”

“And my rep
would be?”

“Some slick
suit named Treacle, of Montblanc, Cissler and Treacle. Issued in two
installments -- -the half mil as agreed, and another two point five if I
contracted to donate my services to Dachas, a newly established abuse
center for women and children on the Lower East Side. Dachas,” she said,
still smiling, “is, I'm told, Gaelic for hope.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. You've
got a hell of a man there, Dallas. You ever get tired of him, I'll take him off
your hands.”

“I'll keep
that in mind.”

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

“You gave her
the money for all that?” Peabody demanded as she hustled out after Eve.

“No, I didn't
give her the money because it's not my money, is it? It's Roarke's money. I'm a
cop, goddamn it. A cop doesn't have space stations full of money to make grand
gestures with.”

“Yeah, but
still. Does that piss you off?”

Eve stopped on
the sidewalk, took a long breath. “I don't know if it pisses me off.” But she
kicked the base of a street lamp just in case she was. “He could tell me about
this stuff, couldn't he? He could keep me in the loop so I wouldn't go into
this sort of situation and come out feeling like an idiot.”

Peabody looked
back at the clinic, her soft heart going to goo stage. “I think it was a
beautiful gesture.”

“Don't
contradict me, Peabody. Do you forget I am the supreme bitch cop?”

“No, sir. And
as your vehicle is in the same spot and the same condition as you left it, the
neighborhood didn't forget that either.”

“Too bad.” A
bit wistful, she looked around. “I'd've enjoyed busting some ass.”

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

Back at
Central, Eve snagged a candy bar in lieu of lunch, brooded, called up data on
the chemicals pertinent to the Bankhead homicide, brooded some more, then
called to harass McNab.

“I want an
address.”

“Would you
settle for twenty-three of them?”

“What the hell
does that mean?”

“Look, I'm
going to snag a conference room, your office is a box. Your level,” he said,
working a keyboard to his left manually as he spoke. “Ah... Room 426. I'm using
your name to finesse it.”

“McNab -- “

“Easier, quicker
to explain this face-to-face. Give me five.”

He broke
transmission on her snarl, which gave her no choice but to finish her snarl at
Peabody. “Conference room 426. Now,” she ordered.

She stormed
out of her office, through the detective's bullpen where the kill lights in her
eyes discouraged any of her associates from speaking to her. By the time she
shoved into the conference room she'd worked up a fine head of steam and only
required a handy target to spew it on.

To his
misfortune, Feeney strolled in first.

“What the hell
kind of division are you running up there?” she demanded. “McNab's giving me
orders now? Hanging up on me? Booking rooms in my name on his own
initiative, and ... and refusing to give me data when ordered.”

“Hold on now,
Dallas. I'm an innocent bystander.”

“Too bad,
'cause they're the ones who usually end up bloody.”

With a little
shrug, Feeney rattled the bag of nuts weighing down his pocket. “All I know is
the kid tagged me, asked me to swing by here so he could fill us both in at once.”

“I'm primary
on this case. EDD was requested to assist and consult. I have not yet formed a
task force in this matter, nor have I been authorized by the commander to do
so. Until I say different McNab's a drone and nothing more.”

Feeney stopped
rattling the bag, angled his head. “That go for me, too? Lieutenant?”

“Your rank
doesn't mean dick when I'm primary. If you can't teach your subordinates proper
pecking order and procedure, then maybe your rank doesn't mean dick in your own
division.”

He stepped in
until the tips of his shoes bumped her boots, leaned in until the tip of his
nose bumped hers. “Don't you tell me how to run my division. I trained your ass
and I can still kick it, so don't you start thinking you can tear a strip off
mine.”

“Back off.”

“Fuck that. Fuck
that, Dallas. You got a problem with my command style, you spit it out.
Chapter and verse.”

Something in
her head wanted to explode. Why hadn't she felt it? Something in her heart was
screaming. But she hadn't heard it. So it was she who backed off, one cautious
step. “He drugged her with Whore and Rabbit. He covered the bed with rose
petals and fucked her on them until she died. Then he tossed her out the window
so she lay broken and naked on the sidewalk.”

“Oh Jesus.”
Pity edged his voice.

“I guess it's
been stuck in my throat since Morris told me. I'm sorry I slapped at you.”

“Forget it.
Sometimes you catch one that hits you harder than others. You gotta slap at
somebody.”

“I've got his
face, I've got his DNA, I've got his transmissions. I know the table in the
club where he fed her the first of the Whore in drinks that she paid for with
her own debit card. But I don't have him.”

“You will.” He
turned as Peabody strode in a step in front of McNab. Both of them had flushed
faces. “Detective, did you request permission from the primary to convene in
this room?”

McNab blinked.
“I needed to -- “

“Answer the
question.”

“Not exactly.
Captain.” He didn't need to see Peabody smirk to know she did. “I apologize for
overstepping, Lieutenant Dallas. I believe the information I have to, ah,
impart, is important to the investigation and is better served in person than
interoffice transmissions.”

The dull flush
burning up his throat was enough to satisfy her. “Then impart it, McNab.”

“Yes, sir.” It
was difficult to look stiff and cold while wearing cherry red trousers and a
skin-tight sweater the color of daffodils. But he nearly managed it. “In
tracing the suspect's account from the fraudulent source location, I was able
to ascertain the name used to register the account. It purports to be a
business called La Belle Dame.”

“Purports to
be,” Eve said.

“Yes, sir.
There is no firm or organization by that name doing business in the state of
New York. The address given for the company is, in fact, Grand Central
Station.”

“And I'm to be
excited about this because ... ?”

“Well, I kept
separating layers and hit on sources for the actual transmissions. The
locations they were sent out from. So far. I've hit twenty-three spots. All
public cyber-cafes and clubs, in Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn. So far,” he
repeated. “He moves around, sends and receives from ports in public venues. The
only e-mail sent or received from that screen address was to and from Bryna
Bankhead.”

“He created it
for her,” Eve murmured.

“The umbrella
account could have other screen names,” McNab went on. “I haven't been able to
break through the blocks. Yet. Whoever created the account knows his
cyber-shit. I mean, he's good, and he's careful.”

“Her best
friend didn't recognize him. So far none of the door-to-doors on the building
have turned up any neighbors who recognized him.” Eve paced. “If Bankhead
didn't know him, if he wasn't seen in or around her building before the night
of the murder, then we have to assume he targeted her from the chat room.”

“He knew where
she worked,” Peabody put in.

“But she
didn't make him, and neither did her friend who works the same department. So
he's maybe a casual customer. If he was a regular or an employee who spent any
time in their department, they'd have noticed. You still notice guys who hang
out where they sell women's underwear. But we'll run his picture through their
human resources division.

“So he uses
public venues. He either likes to socialize or he's hiding in plain sight. Maybe
both. We circulate his picture at the cyber-spots.”

“Lieutenant?”
McNab wagged his fingers. “Do you know how many cyber-venues there are in New
York?”

“No, and I
don't want to know. But you can start counting them off as you visit them.” She
looked at Feeney. “You in if Whitney authorizes?”

“I'd say we're
already in.”

“Generate a
list,” she told McNab. “We'll split it up, work in pairs for now.” She gave a
soft sigh. “McNab and Feeney are the experts in this area. I'm only going to
ask this once, in this room. Does anyone here have a problem working with
anyone else on this team?”

McNab stared
at the ceiling as if fascinated by the dull white tone of the paint. Peabody simply
frowned at her shoes.

“I take that
as a no. Peabody, you're with McNab; Feeney, you're with me. Start on the West
Side; we'll take the East. We'll do as many venues as possible until...” She
checked her wrist unit, calculated. “Twenty-one hundred. We'll meet at my home
office tomorrow, oh eight hundred for a full briefing. Feeney, let's pitch this
to Whitney.”

Feeney
strolled out after her, whistling. “You could've split us up another way.”

“Yeah.” She
glanced back down the corridor and hoped she wasn't making a mistake. “But I'm
thinking this way maybe the two of them will duke it out and we can all get
back to normal.”

He considered
that as they hopped on a glide. “I got twenty on Peabody.”

“Shit.” She
jammed her hands in her pockets. “Okay, but if I've got to lay down on McNab's
bony ass, I want odds. Three to five.”

“Done.”

Back in the
conference room, Peabody and McNab sat just as they were.

“I've got no
problem working with you,”' McNab said.

“Why should
you? I haven't got one working with you either.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They stared,
ceiling and shoes, for another twenty seconds. McNab broke first. “You're the
one who's been avoiding me anyway.”

“I have not.
Why should I? We are so over.”

“Who said
anything different?” And it burned him that she could say it, just that coolly,
when he thought about her all the time.

“And you
wouldn't think I'd been avoiding you if you hadn't been trying to get my
attention.”

“Shit. For
what? I'm a busy boy, She-Body. Too busy to worry about some stiff-necked
uniform who spends her off-time playing with LCs.”

“You leave
Charles out of this.” She leaped to her feet, rage boiling in her blood. And a
new little tear in her heart.

“Me, I don't
have to hunt up pros. I got all the amateurs I can handle.” He kicked out his
legs, worked up a sneer. “But that's neither here nor there, right? We got the
job, and that's it. If you can handle it.”

“I can handle
anything you can. More.”

“Fine. I'll
put the list together, and we'll get started.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“You don't
have his face.”

Eve scowled at
Dickie Berenski, the chief lab tech. He might have had a smarmy smile, an
attitude that had earned him the not-so-affectionate nickname of Dickhead and a
personality defect that deluded him into thinking of himself as a ladies' man,
but he was a genius in his little world of fibers, fluids, and follicles.

“You called me
out of the field to tell me I don't have his face?”

“Figured you'd
want to know.” Dickie pushed himself away from the station, sent his chair
spinning toward another monitor. His spidery fingers danced over a keyboard.
“See that there?”

Eve studied
the color-washed image on monitor. “It's a hair.”

“Give the lady
a prize. But what kinda hair, you might ask, and I'm here to tell you. This
didn't come out of your perp's head, it didn't come out of your victim's head,
or any other area of their bodies. Came out of a wig. Expensive, human hair
wig.”

“Can you track
it down?”

“Working on
it.” He scooted his chair to yet another post. “Know what this is?”

There were
colored shapes and circles and formulas on the monitor. Eve blew out a breath.
She hated the guessing games, but knew her job when it came to Dickie. “No,
Dickie, why don't you tell me what it is?”

“It's makeup,
Dallas. Base cream number 905/4. Traces of it found on the bed linens. And it
don't match what was on the dead girl. Got more.” He switched the image. “We
got here traces of face putty. Stuff people use to give 'em more chin or
cheekbone, whatever, if they don't want to go for permanent face sculpting and
shit.”

“And she
wasn't using any face putty.”

“Another prize
for the little lady! Guy was wearing a wig, face putty, makeup. You don't have
his face.”

“Well, this is
just wonderful news, Dickie. You got any more?”

“Got a couple
of his pubic hairs. The real thing -- medium brown. Be able to give you more on
him from that before we're finished. Got his fingerprints on the wineglasses,
on the bottle, on the body, balcony doors, and rail. And here and there. You
find him, we'll box him up real pretty.”

“Send me what
you've got. Track down those brand names. I want that data by morning.”

“Hey!” he
shouted as she strode out. “You could say thanks.”

“Yeah. Thanks.
Goddamn it.”

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

She let it
play through her head all the way home, trying to see what kind of man lived
inside her killer. She was afraid she did see. He was smart -- smart enough to
change his appearance so the security cameras and Bryna Bankhead wouldn't
identify him. But he hadn't taken her out, or gone back to her apartment with
the idea of killing her. Eve was sure of it.

He'd gone to
seduce her.

But things had
gotten out of hand, she mused, and he'd found himself with a dead woman on his
rose petals. He'd reacted, panicked or angry, and had tossed her. Panicked rang
with her. It hadn't been temper on his face when he'd come out of the
apartment.

He had money,
or access to it. After more than a year with Roarke she knew the signs. She'd
recognized the exclusive cut of the killer's suit, even the pricey gleam of his
shoes.

But he'd let
Bryna pay for the drinks. A two for one, Eve thought. No paper trail,
and a boost to his ego by having the woman pay for him.

He had solid
tech skills and a knowledge of chemistry. Or again, access to that knowledge
and skill.

He was
sexually twisted. Perhaps inadequate, even impotent under normal circumstances.
He'd be single, she decided as she approached the gates of home. Unlikely to
have had any long-term or healthy relationships in his past. Nor had he been
looking for one. He'd wanted complete control. The romantic trappings had been
for his benefit, not hers.

An
illusion, she decided, his
fantasy. So that he could envision himself as lover.

Now that he'd
achieved that control, he would do one of two things. He'd hole up in fear and
guilt over what he'd done. Or he'd start hunting again.

Predators, in
Eve's experience, rarely stopped at one.

The house
loomed into view, with all its fanciful and elegant angles softened by
twilight. Lights glowed richly against too many windows to count. Ornamental
trees and shrubs she couldn't name were in wild bloom, perfuming the air so
delicately, so completely, you could almost forget you were in the city.

Then again,
sometimes she thought of this strange and perfect space behind stone walls and
iron gates as its own country. She just happened to live in it.

She'd come to
love the house. Even a year before she wouldn't have believed that possible.
She'd admired it, certainly. Been both intimidated and fascinated by its sheer
beauty, its amazing warren of rooms and treasures. But the love had caught her,
and held her. Just as love for the man who owned it had caught her. Had held
her.

Knowing he
wasn't inside tempted her to turn around and drive away again. She could spend
the night at Central.

Because the
idea depressed her, because it reminded her of what she might have done before
her life had opened to Roarke, she pulled to a stop in front of the house.

She climbed
the old stone steps, pulled open the grand front door, and stepped out of the
dusk into the glamorous light of the entrance foyer.

And Summerset,
a skinny crow in his habitual black, stood waiting. His stony face matched his
stony voice.

“Lieutenant.
You left the premises in the middle of the night and failed to inform me of
your schedule or your expected return.”

“Gee, Dad, am
I grounded?”

Because it
would irritate him, and irritating Roarke's majordomo was one of life's
guaranteed pleasures, she stripped off her jacket and tossed it on the polished
newel of the main staircase.

Because it
would irritate her, and irritating Roarke's cop was one of Summerset's
pleasures, he lifted the scarred leather jacket with two thin fingers.
“Informing me of your comings and goings is a basic courtesy, which naturally
you're incapable of understanding.”

“Ice. We
understand each other. Anyway, I was out partying all night. You know, while
the cat's away.” She wanted to ask, and couldn't bring herself to ask, if he
knew when Roarke was expected back.

He'd know, she
thought as she started upstairs. He knew every fucking thing. She could call
Roarke herself, but that would make her feel nearly as stupid. Hadn't she
talked to him twenty-four hours ago? Hadn't he said he hoped to wrap things up
and be home in another couple of days?

She walked
into the bedroom, thought about a shower, thought about a meal. And decided she
wasn't in the mood for either. Better to go up to her office, run some
probabilities, read through her case notes. She removed her weapon harness,
rolled her shoulders. And realized work wasn't the answer either.

What she
needed was some thinking time.

It was a rare
thing for her to go up to the roof garden. She didn't like heights. But despite
the sprawling space of the house, being inside made her feel closed in. And
maybe the air would clear her head.

She opened the
dome so starlight sprinkled down on the dwarf trees, the lush blooms that
speared and spilled out of pots. A fountain gurgled into a pool where exotic
fish flashed like wet jewels.

She took her
time walking to the wall, carved with winged fairies, that circled this section
of the roof.

They'd
entertained up here a few times, she remembered. For a man in Roarke's
position, entertaining was a job. Though, for reasons that escaped her, it was
something he actually enjoyed.

She couldn't
recall ever coming up here alone before, or for that matter, ever coming up
with just Roarke. And she wondered who the hell tended the masses of flowers
and plants, fed the fish, kept the tiles gleaming, made certain the seats and
tables and statuary were clean.

It was rare to
see any sort of servant, human or droid, in the house other than Summerset. But
then, she'd learned that people who held great wealth, great power, could
easily command silent and nearly invisible armies to handle the pesky details
of life.

Despite that
wealth and that power, Roarke had gone personally to handle the final details
of a friend's death.

And she spent
her days handling the details of the deaths of strangers.

She let her
mind clear, then filled it with Bryna Bankhead.

Young, eager,
romantic. Organized. She'd surrounded herself with attractive things displayed
in an attractive manner. Her closet had been full of stylish clothes, with
everything hung neatly.

Both the dress
and the shoes she'd worn on her fatal date had been new, with the debits
efficiently listed in her log book. She'd gotten a manicure and had a facial as
well, had put on pretty earrings purchased the afternoon of her date.

A very female
woman, Eve mused. One who read and enjoyed poetry.

Which meant
the killer had hunted the young, the romantic, the particularly female.

She had two
bottles of wine in her kitchen, one white, one red. And neither approaching the
label or price range of the bottle on the table. Had he brought it with him, in
his black leather bag, along with the illegals, the rose petals, the candles?

She'd kept
condoms in her goodie drawer, but the killer hadn't used one. Bryna had been
too high on illegals to insist on such defenses, which meant the killer hadn't
been concerned about protection, or leaving DNA evidence.

Because, had
she lived, she wouldn't have been able to identify him by description. More,
Eve thought, she wouldn't have been sure what had happened. They'd had drinks
in public, where, according to the server Eve had interviewed that evening, she
had been very cozy with her date. Hand-holding, kisses, quiet laughter, long,
soulful looks. The server, according to his statement, had assumed they were
lovers.

The security
cameras would not only follow that theme but add to it. She'd not only let him
into her apartment, she'd pulled him inside.

That had been
clever of him, Eve thought now. Waiting, letting her make the move. For the
record.

If she'd
lived, he'd have gotten away clean.

She wondered
now if he'd done it before.

No, no. She
began to pace along the wall. If he had, why would he make the mistake of
overdosing her? It seemed like a first time. But she'd run a probability on
that.

If there were
another it was another channel to explore, another route to tracking him. To
stopping him.

Pulling out
her memo book, she plugged in key words.

Chat rooms

Poetry

Rare, expensive illegals

Wig, cosmetic enhancements

Pink roses

Pinot Noir '49

Sexual deviant

Tech skills

Chemistry knowledge

After scanning
her own words, she tucked the book back in her pocket. Maybe she'd have that
shower, that meal, and work after all.

And turning,
she saw Roarke.

It didn't
matter that they'd been together more than a year. It occurred to her that she
would, very likely, have this leap of heart, this dazzling rush, every time she
saw him for the rest of her life.

Eventually, it
might stop embarrassing her.

He looked like
something fashioned from fantasy. The long, rangy body clad in black, would
have looked just as natural in a billowing cape or tarnished armor.

His face,
framed by that silky sweep of black hair, would have suited either poet or
warrior with its chiseled bones and full sensuous mouth. His eyes, that wild
and wonderful blue, still had the power to weaken her knees.

No, she
realized, it would never stop embarrassing her.

It would never
stop thrilling her.

“You're back
early.”

“A bit. Hello,
Lieutenant.”

At the sound
of his voice, that subtle and rich lilt of Ireland, everything inside her
tumbled. Then he smiled, just the faintest curve of his lips, and she took a
step toward him. By the second she was running.

He caught her
halfway, lifted her right off her feet even as his mouth found hers.

There was
heat, one quick flash, and warmth beneath it, a spreading, settled warmth that
reached down to the marrow.

Home, he
thought as the taste of her coated over the grief and fatigue of the last days.
Home at last.

“You failed to
inform me of your schedule,” she said in a reasonably accurate mimic of
Summerset. “Now I guess I have to cancel the hot date I lined up with the
lap-dancing twins.”

“Ah, Lars and
Sven. I've heard they're very inventive.” He rested his cheek against hers as
he set her on her feet again. “What are you doing up here?”

“I don't know
exactly. Couldn't settle, wanted air.” She eased back to study his face. “You
okay?”

“Yes.”

But she angled
her head, took his face in her hands. “Are you okay?” she repeated.

“It was
difficult. More than I expected it to be. I thought I'd put it away.”

“He was your
friend. Whatever else, he was your friend.”

“One who died
so I didn't. I've resolved that.” He laid his brow on hers. “Or thought I had.
This wake Brian wanted, the gathering of so many from my past, then seeing
where Mick had been put in the ground... it was difficult.”

“I should have
gone with you.”

He smiled a
little. “Some of the mourners might have been a little uneasy with a cop in the
midst. Even my cop. Still, I've a message from Brian for you. As he stood
behind his bar at the Penny Pig he asked that I tell you when you've come to
your senses and shed yourself of the likes of me, he'll be waiting for you.”

“It's always
good to have backup. You have dinner?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Why don't we
try a little role reversal? I'll make you eat, sneak a soother in your food,
then tuck you into bed.”

“You've
shadows under your eyes, so it seems to me you're the one in need of food and
bed. Summerset said you were out all night.”

“Summerset is
a big, fat tattletale. I caught a case last night.”

He feathered
his long fingers through her hair, letting all those shades of brown and blonde
spill through. “Want to tell me about it?”

She could have
said no, and he'd have wheedled it out of her. “Later.” She eased back into his
arms, held on.

“I missed you,
Eve. Missed holding you like this. Missed the smell of you, the taste.”

“You could
make up for it.” She turned her head so that her lips skimmed over his jaw.

“I intend to.”

“Intentions
are easy.” Now she used her teeth. “I prefer action. Right here, right now.”

He let her
back him toward a long, padded chaise. “What about Lars and Sven?”

“I'll take
care of them later.”

He grinned,
spun her around so she hit the chaise first. “I think you're going to be much
too tired for a lap dance.”

“I don't know.
I'm feeling pretty energetic.” She shifted to cradle him between her thighs.
And her eyebrows winged up. “Hey, you, too.”

“I seem to
have caught my second wind,” He opened the first button on her shirt, paused.
“Isn't this my shirt?”

She winced
before she could stop herself. “So?”

“So.” Touched,
amused, he dispatched the rest of the buttons. “I'm afraid I'll have to have it
back.”

“Yeah, like
you don't already have about five hundred ...” She trailed off when his fingers
traced over her breasts. “Okay, if you want to be that way about it.”

“I do.” He
touched his lips to hers.

He sank into
her, layer by layer. The taste of her mouth, her skin, and the texture of both,
aroused, soothed, seduced. The shape of her -- the long legs, the narrow torso,
the small, firm breasts -- were an unending delight.

She tugged at
the shirts, the one he wore, the one she'd borrowed, and flesh met flesh. She
arched; he burrowed.

The night air
cooled around them, but blood heated. She sighed as their mouths met again, as
lips parted, as tongues slicked in a long wet kiss that slipped from gentle to
urgent.

And her sigh
was a moan as his mouth began to move restlessly down her body.

More. All.
Everything, he thought. Then stopped
thinking.

Her throat,
her shoulders, the lines and curves of them. He fed on them, then hungrily on
her breasts until it seemed he fed on her heart as well.

Shuddering,
she bowed to him, offering more while her hands streaked over him to take.

He made her
want more than she'd known there was to have. It was always the same. And when
his mouth, his hands stroked down her, she gripped the side of the chaise and
rode the ferocious storm of pleasure.

She saw the
stars wheeling in the sky overhead, felt others explode inside her body. She
went limp, she went liquid, and moved against him now in a slow, sinuous
rhythm.

Urgency
mellowed toward tenderness. A caress, a whisper, a gentle shift, body to body.

Her fingers
stroked through his hair. Her lips found the curve of his throat, nuzzling
against the pulse that beat for her. When he slipped inside her, she opened her
eyes to find him watching her.

No one, she
thought as the breath trembled through her lips, no one had ever looked at her
as he did. In a way that told her she was the center.

She rose to
him, fell away, rose again in a dance that was both patient and pure. The
rhythm stayed slow, silky and slow as their lips met again.

She heard,
felt him say her name. “Eve.”

She wrapped
her arms around him, held him close, as they slipped home together.

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

He unearthed
robes from somewhere. Eve sometimes wondered if he had some factory of
silkworms buried in the house as he never seemed to run out of silk robes.
These were black and just weighty enough to keep a body comfortable on a warm
spring night while dining alfresco.

She decided it
was hard to beat eating rare steak, from actual cows, drinking a full-bodied
red wine at a candlelit table on the roof garden. And all this after stupendous
sex.

“It's a pretty
good deal,” she said between bites.

“What is?”

“Having you
back. No fun having a fancy dinner by yourself.”

“There's
always Summerset.”

“Now you're
going to spoil my appetite.”

He watched her
plow through the steak. “I think not. Haven't you eaten today?”

“I had a
doughnut, and don't start. What's Pinot Noir forty-nine run?”

“What label?”
he retorted just as casually as she had asked.

“Ahh, shit.”
She closed her eyes until she had the image of the bottle in her head. “Maison
de Lac.”

“Excellent
choice. About five hundred a bottle. I'd have to check to be certain, but
that's close.”

“One of
yours?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It's one of
the murder weapons. Do you own the apartment building on Tenth Street?”

“Which
apartment building on Tenth Street?”

She hissed,
rifled through her mental files, and gave him the address.

“I don't
believe I do.” He smiled easily. “Now how did I miss that one?”

“Very funny.
Well, it's nice to know I can catch a murder someplace in the city you don't
own.”

“How is a
five-hundred-dollar bottle of very nice wine used as a murder weapon? Poison?”

“In a way.”
She debated about five seconds, then told him.

“He courts her
through e-mail,” Roarke said. “Romances her with poetry, then slips two of the
most despicable illegals ever devised into her drink.”

“Drinks,” Eve
corrected. “He was plying her through the evening.”

“And sets the
stage -- romance, seduction -- and uses her. Uses her up,” he said softly. “All
the while telling himself, I'd think, that she was enjoying it. That it wasn't
rape, but again, seduction, romance. Non-violent, erotic, and mutually
satisfying.”

Eve set down
her fork. “Why do you say that?”

“You said he
was disguised. Once he was in her apartment, and she was already under the
influence, he could have done what he wanted with her. If he'd wanted to hurt
her, if violence was part of his turn-on, he could have done so. But he added
candlelight, music, flowers. And gave her a drug designed to make her
aggressive and needy sexually. The illusion that she was not only willing, but
passionate. Did he need that for his ego, to be able to perform physically? Or
both?”

“That's good.
That's good,” she said again with a nod. “I haven't been thinking enough like a
guy. The disguise is part of the seduction, too. The expensive clothes, the
hair and makeup. He wanted to look like ...”

She stopped,
stared at the exceptional specimen across from her.

“Oh shit, he
wanted to look like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you you
-- he went for really long, curly hair and green eyes. But you as a type. The
perfect fantasy.”

“Darling,
you'll embarrass me.”

“Fat chance.
What I'm saying is the look was part of his fantasy, too. He wants to be
the great lover, the irresistible image. How he looks and what he is, or
pretends to be. Rich, traveled, well-read, sophisticated yet hopelessly
romantic at the core. There's a certain type of woman who's prime target for
that kind.”

“But not you,
Lieutenant,” he said with a smile.

“I just
married you for the sex.” She picked up her fork again. “And the regular
servings of red meat. Which brings me to a little sidebar here. Louise Dimatto
lives in the same apartment building.”

“Does she?”

“And she was
standing on the sidewalk when Bankhead hit the pavement.”

He topped off
their glasses. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I swung by
the clinic today to bring her up to date. Lot of changes around there.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, hmmm.
Why didn't you tell me you'd given the clinic three million dollars?”

He lifted his
glass, sipped. “I make quite a number of charitable donations I don't tell you
about.” He offered a smile. “Would you like to be copied on the data in the
future?”

“Don't get
smart with me, ace. I'd like to know why you went around me and gave her five
times the amount agreed on. I'd like to know why you didn't tell me about this
shelter you asked her to give time to.”

“I liked the
work she was doing.”

“Roarke.” She
laid her hand over his. Firmly. “You started this shelter for me. Did you think
I'd be upset, or pissed off or what if you told me about it?”

“I implemented
plans for the shelter several months ago. For you,” he said and turned his hand
over hers so that their fingers linked. “For myself. We had nowhere to go, did
we, Eve? And if I had, I wouldn't have gone. Too tough, too angry. Even
bleeding from the ears from the last beating, I'd not have gone. But others
will.”

He lifted
their joined hands, studying the way they fit. The way they held. “Still, I'm
next to certain I wouldn't have thought to do this thing if it hadn't been for
you.”

“But you
didn't tell me.”

“The shelter's
not altogether finished,” he began. “It's open, and they've taken in what
they're calling guests. But there are still details to be completed, some
programs that are yet to be fully implemented. It should be -- “ He broke off.
“No, I didn't tell you. I don't know whether I intended to or not because I
couldn't be sure if it would please you or distress you.”

“The name
pleases me.”

“Good.”

“And what
distresses me, though that's a wimpy word, is that you didn't tell me about
something you're doing that makes me really proud of you. I wouldn't have gone
to one of those places either,” she continued when he only looked at her.
“Because he had me so scared of them, because he made them sound like big, dark
pits and I was as afraid of the dark as I was of him. So I wouldn't have gone.
But others will.”

He lifted her
hand to his lips. “Yes.”

“Now look at
you, Dublin's bad boy. Pillar of the community, philanthropist, a leading
social conscience of the city.”

“Don't you start.”

“Tough guy
with a big, gooey heart.”

“Don't make me
hurt you, Eve.”

“Hear that?”
She cocked her head. “That's the sound of my knees knocking.” She sat back,
satisfied the sadness she'd seen lingering on his face when he'd first come
home was gone. She was really starting to nail this wife thing.

“Okay, now
that I've let you fuck me and feed me, thereby satisfying all immediate
appetites, I've got work.”

“I beg your
pardon, but I seem to recall someone promising to tuck me into bed.''

“That'll have
to wait, ace. I want to run some probabilities, and see if I can get a line on
the umbrella account this guy uses. French deal. La Belle Dame.”

“Keats.”

“What's that?”

“Not what, you
plebeian, who. John Keats. Classic poet, nineteenth century. The poem is 'La
Belle Dame Sans Merci.' The beautiful woman without mercy.”

“How come you
know all this stuff?”

“Amazing,
isn't it?” He laughed as he pulled her to her feet. “I'll get you the poem,
then we can get to work.”

“I don't need
-- “

He shut her up
with a quick, hard kiss. “How about this? Let's pretend you argued about not
needing or wanting civilian help or interference, then I pointed out all the
very sane and reasonable advantages of same. We wrangled about it for twenty
minutes, then admitting that I can find data more quickly than you, and two
heads are better than one, and so on and so forth, we got to work. That'll save
some time.”

She hissed out
a breath. “Okay, but if I catch you looking smug, I'm kicking your ass.”

“Darling, that
goes without saying.”

CHAPTER FIVE

They didn't
have his face. Whenever fear tried to
creep under his skin like hot ants, he repeated that single and most essential
fact.

They did not
have his face, so they could not find him.

He could walk
the streets, ride in a cab, eat in a restaurant, cruise the clubs. No one would
question him or point fingers or run to find a cop.

He had killed,
and he was safe.

In its most
basic sense, his life hadn't changed. And still, he was afraid.

It had been an
accident, of course. Nothing more than an unfortunate miscalculation caused by a
perfectly understandable excess of enthusiasm. Actually, if one looked at the
overall picture, it had been as much the woman's fault as his.

More, really.

When he said
as much, again, while gnawing viciously on his thumbnail, his companion sighed.

“Kevin, if you
must pace and repeat yourself do it elsewhere. It's very annoying.”

Kevin Morano,
a tall, trim young man of twenty-two, threw himself down, drummed his
well-manicured fingers on the buttery leather arm of a wingback chair. His face
was unlined, his eyes a quiet, unremarkable blue, his hair a medium brown of
medium length.

His looks were
pleasant if ordinary, marred only by his tendency to sulk at the slightest hint
of criticism.

He did so now
as he watched his friend, his oldest and most constant companion. From that
quarter, at least, he felt he deserved some sympathy and support.

“I think I
have some cause to be concerned.” There was petulance in his voice, a whine for
sympathy. “It all went to hell, Lucias.”

“Nonsense.”
The word was more command than comment. Lucias Dunwood was used to commanding
Kevin. It was, in his opinion, the only way they got anything done.

He continued
to work on his calculations and measurements in the expansive laboratory he'd
designed and equipped to suit both his needs and his wants. As always, he
worked with confidence.

As a child
he'd been considered a prodigy, a pretty boy with red curls and sparkling eyes
with a stunning talent for math and science.

He'd been
pampered, spoiled, educated, and praised.

The monster
inside the child had been very sly, and very patient.

Like Kevin,
he'd been raised in wealth and in privilege. They'd grown up almost like
brothers. In a very real sense, as they'd been created in much the same way,
for much the same purpose, they considered themselves even more than brothers.

From the
beginning, even as infants, they had recognized each other. Had recognized what
hid beneath those small, soft bodies.

They'd
attended the same schools. Had competed academically, socially, throughout
their lives. They fed each other, and found in each other the only one who
understood that they were beyond the common and ordinary rules that governed
society.

Kevin's mother
had birthed him, then turned him over to paid tenders so that she could pursue
her own ambitions. Lucias's mother had kept him close, and found in him her
only ambition.

And both had
been smothered with excesses, indulged in every whim, directed to excel, and
taught to expect nothing less than everything.

Now they were
men, Lucias was fond of saying, and could do as they pleased.

Neither worked
for a living, nor needed to. They found the idea of contributing to a society
they disdained laughable. In the town house they'd bought together, they'd
created their own world, their own rules.

The primary
rule was never, never to be bored.

Lucias turned
to a monitor, scanning the various components and equations that rushed over
the screen. Yes, he thought, yes. That was correct. That was
perfect. And satisfied, he strolled over to the bar, a gleaming antique from
the 1940s, and mixed a drink.

“Whiskey and
soda,” he said. “That'll set you right up.”

Kevin only
waved a hand, sighed heavily.

“Don't be
tedious, Kev.”

“Oh pardon me.
I'm just a bit out of sorts because I killed someone.”

Chuckling,
Lucias carried the highball glasses across the room. “It doesn't matter. If it
did, I'd be very angry with you. After all, I was very clear on the dosage, and
the choice. You weren't to mix the two solutions, Kevin.”

“I know it.”
Irritable, Kevin took the glass, frowned into it. “I got carried away with the
whole thing. I've never had a woman so completely under my spell. I didn't know
it could be that way.”

“That was the
point of the game, wasn't it?” Smiling, Lucias lifted his glass in toast,
drank. “Women have never been what we wanted them to be for us. Christ, look at
our mothers. Mine's spineless and yours is bloodless.”

“At least
yours shows an interest in you.”

“You don't
know how lucky you are.” Lucias gestured with his glass. “The bitch would hang
around my neck like a pendant if I didn't keep away from her. Small wonder dear
old Dad spends the majority of his time out of town.”

Lucias
stretched out his legs. “In any case, back to the point. Women. If they were
interested in either of us, they were usually dull intellectuals or brainless
money-grubbers. We deserve better, Kevin. We deserve exactly the women we want,
as many as we want, and in precisely the way we want them.”

“We do. Of
course we do. But God, Lucias, when I realized she was dead -- “

“Yes, yes.”
Lucias sat in the matching chair, leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me again.”

“She was so
sexy. Beautiful, exotic, confident. The kind of woman I've always wanted. And
she couldn't keep her hands off me. I could've had her in the cab, in the
elevator. I scored a hell of a lot of points even before we were in her
apartment.”

“We'll tally
them up shortly.” Lucias gave an impatient wave. “Go on.”

“I had to keep
slowing her down. I didn't want it to be over too quickly. I wanted the romance
of it, for both of us. The slow steps of seduction. And of course ..,” The
first hints of amusement crossed his face. “To continue to rack up as many
points as possible during the allotted time period.”

“Naturally,”
Lucias agreed, and toasted.

“It was
working. She let me do whatever I wanted. She enjoyed it.”

“Yes. Yes.
Then?”

“I told her to
wait so I could set the scene in the bedroom. Just as I'd planned. It was
perfect. It was all perfect. The lighting, the music, the scent of the air.”

“And she
surrendered to you.”

“Yes.” Kevin
sighed, letting it come flooding back. “I carried her into the bedroom. I
undressed her, so slowly, while she trembled for me. She whimpered for me. But
then, she became lethargic.”

Lucias rattled
the ice in his glass. “You'd given her too much.”

“I know it,
but I wanted more, damn it.” His mouth turned down, his voice was edged with
temper. “It wasn't enough for her to lie there like a droid. I wanted her hot, out
of control. I deserved that after all I'd done.”

“Of course you
did. So you gave her the Rabbit.”

“I should have
diluted it. I know. But I was careful, just a few drops on her tongue. Lucias
...” He wet his lips. “She went wild. Hot and screaming. Begging me to take
her. She begged me, Lucias. We coupled like animals. Romance to seduction to
the primitive. I've never felt like that. When I came it was like being born.”

He shuddered,
sipped. “When it was over I lay there, spent, drifting with her under me. I
kissed her, caressed her so she'd know she'd pleased me. Then I looked down at
her. She stared up at me. Just stared and stared. I didn't understand at first,
but then ... I knew she was dead.”

“You were
born,” Lucias said, “and she died. The ultimate in experiences.” He sipped and
considered. “Think of it, Kevin. She died much the same way as we were
conceived. From a frantic coupling induced by chemicals. One an experiment with
superior results. If we do say so ourselves.”

“And we do,”
Kevin agreed with a laugh.

“The other a
game. A game well played, for the first round. Now it's my turn.”

“What are you
talking about?” Kevin leaped to his feet as Lucias rose. “You can't be serious.
You can't go through with it.”

“Of course I
can. Why should you have all the fun?”

“Lucias, for
God's sake -- “

“It was stupid
of you to throw her out the window. If you'd just left her there, walked out,
it would have taken more time for them to find her. Deduction in points for
poor strategy. I won't make that mistake.”

“What do you
mean?” Kevin gripped his arm. “What are you going to do?”

“Kev, we're in
this together. Planning and execution. When we started we considered this a bit
of recreation, a kind of interlude where we'd expand our sexual experiences. And
at a dollar a point, a kind of casual competition to keep us entertained.”

“No one was
supposed to be hurt.”

“And you're
not,” Lucias pointed out. “Who else matters? It's our game.”

“Yes.” It was
unarguable logic, and calmed him again. “That's true.”

“And now,
think of it.” Lucias spun away, threw out his arms. “In a way it's the most
fascinating circle. Birth to death. Don't you see the irony, the beauty of it?
The very drugs that were used to help us come into existence are the ones you
used to end someone else's existence.”

“Yes ...”
Kevin could feel himself being pulled into the thrill of it. “Yes, but -- “

“The stakes
are higher, and so much more interesting.” Lucias turned back and gave Kevin's
arm a manly and congratulatory squeeze. “Kevin, you're a murderer.”

He paled, but
the gleam of respect in Lucias's eyes made him want to preen. “It was an
accident.”

“You're a
murderer. How can I be less?”

“You mean
to...” Excitement began to ball in his belly. “Deliberately?”

“Look at me.
Tell me, and you know you can't lie, not to me, if her death at your hands
wasn't part of the thrill. Wasn't, in fact, the biggest part of it?”

“I...” Kevin
grabbed his drink, gulped whiskey. “Yes. God, yes.”

“Would you
deny me the same experience?” He draped an arm around Kevin's shoulders, led
him to the elevator. “After all, Kev, they're only women.”

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

Her name was
Grace. Such a sweet, old-fashioned name. She worked as a page in the New York
City library, delivering discs and precious books to patrons who settled into
the reading rooms to study or research or simply pass the time with literature.

She loved
poetry.

She was
twenty-three, a pretty, delicate blonde with a shy nature and a generous heart.
And she was already in love with the man who called himself Dorian and wooed
her in the safe world of cyber-space.

She'd told no
one about him. It made it more special, more romantic that no one knew. For
their first date, she bought a new dress with a long, flowing skirt in blending
pastels that made her think of rainbows.

When she left
her little apartment to ride the subway uptown, she felt very daring, very
adult. Imagine having drinks at the Starview Lounge with the man she was
convinced she would marry.

She was
certain he'd be handsome. He just had to be. She knew he was rich and
articulate and a great traveler, a man who loved books and poetry as she did.

They were soul
mates.

She was too
happy to be nervous, too sure of the outcome of the evening to have a single
doubt.

She would be
dead before midnight.

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

Her name had
been Grace, and she had been his first. Not just his first kill, but his first
woman. Even Kevin didn't know that he had never been able to complete the
sexual act. Until tonight.

He had been a
god in that narrow bed in the pathetic little apartment. A god who had made the
woman beneath him cry out and weep and beg for more. She had babbled her love
for him, had agreed to every demand. And her glassy, drugged eyes had clung
adoringly to his face no matter what he'd done to her.

He'd been so
surprised she'd been a virgin he'd come too quickly the first time. But she'd
said it had been wonderful, she said she'd been waiting for him all her life.
She had saved herself for him.

And his very
disgust with her aroused him.

When he took
the last vial out of his bag, he showed it to her so that the glass and liquid
glinted in the candlelight. When he told her to open her mouth, she did so,
like a little bird waiting for a worm.

Pounding
himself into her, he felt her heart gallop. He felt it burst. And he knew Kevin
had been right. It was like being born.

He studied her
after she was used up, when her body grew colder on the tangled sheets and rose
petals. And knew one thing more. This had been his right. She was every girl
who had ever ignored his needs, or turned away when he was unable to perform.
Everyone who'd ever refused him, denied him, smirked at him.

She was, in
essence, nothing.

He dressed,
brushed at the sleeves of his suit jacket, shot his cuffs. Leaving the candles
burning, he strolled out. He couldn't wait to get home and tell Kevin.

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

Eve felt
fabulous. Sex and sleep, she decided. It was hard to beat the combo. Then when
you started the day with a quick swim, a monster cup of real coffee strong
enough to break bricks, you were in fat city.

The way she
was feeling, she figured the bad guys had best take a day off.

“You look
rested, Lieutenant.” Roarke leaned on the jamb of the doorway between their
home offices.

“Ready to
rock,” she said, watching him over the rim of her coffee cup. “I guess you've
got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I made a
pretty good start on that.”

She snorted.
“Yeah, not bad, but I was thinking of work.”

“Ah. I've made
a start on that as well.” He crossed over, caged her in between his body and
the desk. Leaning over, he stroked the cat who'd draped himself over the 'link
like a rag.

“You're
crowding me, pal, and I'm on the clock here.”

“Not for five
minutes yet.”

She angled her
head to look at her wrist unit. “You're right. Five minutes.” She slid her arms
around his waist. “We ought to be able to ...” Just as she caught his bottom
lip between her teeth, she heard the approaching footsteps, the unmistakable
clomp of cop shoes. “Peabody's early.”

“Let's pretend
we didn't hear her.” Roarke nibbled at her mouth. “That we can't see her.”
Traced it with his tongue. “That we don't even know her name.”

“That's a good
plan except -- “ When he put sincere effort into the kiss, she was pretty sure
she could feel her heart melting. “Down boy,” she murmured just as Peabody
strode into the room.

“Oh. Um.
Ahem.”

Roarke turned,
picked up Galahad to scratch his ears. “Hello, Peabody.”

“Hi. Welcome
home. Maybe I'll just go in the kitchen there and get some coffee ... and
stuff.”

But when she
started by, Roarke reached out, lifted her chin with a finger, and studied her
face. It was pale, the eyes heavy and chased by shadows. “You look tired.”

“Guess I
didn't sleep very well.” She muttered, “Need that coffee.” Then she hurried
away.

“Eve.”

“Don't.” She
held up a finger at Roarke's quiet tone. “I don't want to talk about that now.
I don't ever want to talk about it, but I especially don't want to talk about
it now. And if anybody had listened to me when I said she and McNab getting tangled
was going to screw things up, we wouldn't have to talk about it, would
we?”

“Correct me if
I'm wrong, but I think you're talking about it.”

“Oh, shut up.
All I know is she's going to suck it in and do the job, and so is he.” She gave
the desk one bad-tempered little kick before walking around behind it. “Now go
away.”

“You're
worried about her.”

“Damn it, you
think I can't see she's hurt? That it doesn't get to me?”

“I know you
can, and I know it does.”

She opened her
mouth, then heard more footsteps in the hallway. “Let it go,” she muttered.
“Peabody.” She lifted her voice. “Feeney's here. Coffee light and sweet.”

“How'd you
know it was me?” Feeney demanded as he came inside.

“You shuffle.”

“Hell I do.”

“Hell you
don't. You shuffle, Peabody clomps, McNab prances.”

“If I wore
some of the shoes he does, I'd prance, too. Hey, Roarke, didn't know you were
back.”

“Just. I'll be
working at home for another hour or so,” he told Eve. “Then I'll be in the
midtown offices. The book stays here,” he added. “You're welcome to take it on
disc if you need it.”

“What book?”
Feeney asked.

“Poetry. Seems
our guy took his umbrella name from a poem some guy named Keats wrote a couple
hundred years ago.”

“Bet it
doesn't even rhyme. You take Springsteen, McCartney, Lennon. Those boys knew
how to rhyme. Classic shit.”

“Not only
doesn't it rhyme, but it's weird and depressing and mostly stupid.”

“With that
canny analysis, I'll leave you to work.” Carrying the cat, Roarke started
toward his office. “I believe I hear McNab's prance.”

He might have
been wearing candy-apple red airboots, but he didn't look any perkier than
Peabody. Doing her best to ignore it, Eve sat on the edge of her desk and
updated them.

“That explains
why we didn't have any luck at the cyber-joints either,” McNab put in. “It
didn't make sense that nobody'd seen this dude.”

“We can do
some morphing probabilities,” Feeney mused. “Most possible face structures,
colorings, combos. But basically we'll be working without a visual ID.”

“I ran some
probabilities myself. It's most likely we're looking for a single male between
twenty-five and forty. Upper income bracket, advanced education, with some sort
of sexual dysfunction or perversion. It's most probable he lives in the city.
Feeney, where'd he get the high-priced illegals?”

“Dealers with
Rabbit cater to a small, exclusive clientele. Aren't that many of them. Only
one in the city I know of, but I can check with Illegals to see if there's
more. Nobody deals in Whore that I know of. Just isn't cost effective.”

“But at one
time it was used in sex therapy, and for LC training?”

“Yeah, but the
price tag was too high, and the substance too unpredictable.”

“Okay.” But it
gave her more threads to pull. “We'll back off the cyber-joints for now. McNab,
start on the morphings. Feeney, see what you can find out from Illegals. Once I
hammer Dickhead into identifying brands of the putty and enhancers, the wig,
we'll have that trail to follow. I got a tag on the wine. My source tells me
there were three thousand and fifty bottles of that label and vintage sold in
this borough. Peabody and I will run that down, and we'll see if we can nail
down the pink roses. The guy spends money -- wine, flowers, enhancements,
illegals -- then he's left a trail. We're going to find it. Peabody, you're
with me.”

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

When they were
in the car, Eve took a long breath. “If you're having trouble sleeping, take a
pill.”

“That's some
advice coming from you.”

“Then consider
it an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is
really pissing me off.” Eve punched it, roared up the drive.

Peabody's chin
jutted out so far, Eve was surprised it didn't spear through the windshield. “I
apologize if my personal difficulties are an annoyance to you, Lieutenant.”

“If you can't
do better sarcasm than that, give it up.” She swung through the gates, then
slammed on the brakes. “Do you want time off?”

“No, sir.”

“Don't sir me,
Peabody, in that tone or I'll kick your ass right here and now.”

“I don't know
what's wrong with me.” Her voice went watery. “I don't even like McNab. He's
annoying and he's a jerk and he's stupid. So what if the sex was great?
And maybe we had some laughs. Big deal. It's not like we were serious or
anything. It's not like it gives him the right to give me ultimatums or make
insulting comments and draw asshole conclusions.”

“Have you
slept with Charles yet?”

“What?”
Peabody actually blushed. “No.”

“Maybe you
should. Maybe, I can't believe I'm having this conversation, maybe if you
relieved some stress in that area you'd get your head settled right. Or something.”

“We're ...
Charles and I are friends.”

“Yeah. You're
friends with a very high-priced sexual professional. Seems to me he'd be
willing to help you out.”

“It's not the
same as loaning me twenty till payday.” Then she sighed. “But maybe I should
think about it.”

“Think fast.
We're going to see him.”

Peabody came
straight up out of the seat. “What? Now?”

“Officially,”
Eve said and started the car again. “He's an expert on sex, right? Let's see
what the expert knows about sexual illegals.”

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

The sexual
expert had the morning off. He answered the door wearing blue silk pajama
bottoms.

As man-candy
went, he was a caloric binge. Eve thought it was easy to see why he had so many
clients paying for a nibble.

“Lieutenant,
Delia. What an attractive sight to wake up to.”

“Sorry to
roust you,” Eve told him. “Got a minute?”

“For you,
Lieutenant Sugar, I have hours.” He stepped back to let them in. “Why don't we
have breakfast? I've got crepes stocked in the AutoChef.”

“Rain check,”
Eve said before Peabody could even nod. “You alone or do you have a client
sleeping you off?”

“All alone.”
The sleepiness began to clear. “Is this official?”

“We're on a
case, and I think you may be helpful in certain aspects of it.”

“Was it anyone
I knew?”

“Bankhead,
Bryna. Downtown address.”

“The woman who
jumped out of her window? Wasn't that suicide?”

“Homicide,”
Eve corrected. “The media will have that this morning.”

“Why don't you
sit down? I'll make coffee.”

“Peabody, why
don't you make it?” Eve chose a seat in the well-appointed living area. Sex,
when it was done right, paid well. “The questions I ask you, any portion of
this investigation I may discuss with you, is confidential.”

“Understood.”
He sat across from her. “I take it I'm not a suspect this time.”

“I'm
considering you an expert civilian consultant.” She took out her recorder.
“Officially.”

“Then I assume
sex reared its ugly head.”

“Consult with
Monroe, Charles, licensed companion,” Eve announced. “Initiated by Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve, and on her authority as primary of casefile H-78926B. Also
attending, Peabody, Officer Delia. Mr. Monroe, are you willing to consult in
this matter?”

He managed to
keep his face nearly sober. “Whatever I can do to help as a concerned citizen.”

“What do you
know about the illegal substance known on the street as Whore?”

Instantly his
expression changed. “Did someone use Whore on that poor woman?”

“The question,
Charles?”

“Christ.” He
got to his feet, was pacing as Peabody came back with a coffee tray. “Thanks,
honey.” He took a cup, drank slowly. “It was already illegal by the time I
started training,” he continued. “But I heard plenty about it. I took a seminar
in my early days. Sexual Deviants: Dos and Don'ts. That kind of thing? Illegals
of any kind were a big don't. You can get your license pulled. Of course, that
doesn't mean that certain ... aids aren't employed by some LCs or clients. But
not this one.”

“Why?”

“First, since
it was once used to make trainees more malleable, we'll say, it has a very bad
rep in my business. The sex-slave gambit is fine as a role-playing game, but
not in reality. We're professional sexual companions, Dallas. We're not whores
or puppets.”

“You've never
known anyone who used it?”

“Some of the
older pros. You hear stories, and most of them involve abuse of one kind or
another. Experimentation. Dose the LC trainee with it, then bang away. Like we
were goddamn guinea pigs,” he said in disgust.

“Still, it's
an elitist substance. Any connoisseurs you know of?”

“No, but I can
check around.”

“Carefully,”
Eve warned. “What about Rabbit?”

He lifted one
shoulder, rather elegantly. “Only amateurs and perverts use Rabbit, on
themselves or a partner. In my circle it's considered both tacky and
insulting.”

“Dangerous?”

“If you're
stupid or careless, certainly. You don't mix it with alcohol or any other
stimulant. And you don't want to overdose. ODs are extremely rare because the
shit costs more than liquid gold.”

“You know
dealers who handle it? Clients who use it?”

He stared,
then looked pained. “Jesus, Dallas.”

“I won't use
your name.”

He shook his
head, then walked to the window, lifted the privacy shade. Light washed in.

“Charles, it's
really important.” Peabody stepped up to him, touched his arm. “We wouldn't ask
if it wasn't.”

“I don't do
illegals, Delia. You know that.”

“I know.”

“It's not up
to me to judge clients who do. I'm no one's moral center.”

Eve leaned
over, switched off the recorder. “Off the record, Charles. And my word no
charges will be brought against your client for illegals use.”

“I'm not
giving you her name.” He turned back. “I'm not violating that trust. But I will
talk to her myself. I'll get the name of her dealer. And that I'll give you.”

“I appreciate
it.” Her communicator beeped. “I'm going to take this in the kitchen.”

“Charles.”
Peabody rubbed his arm when Eve left the room. “Thanks. I know we put you in a
sensitive position.”

“Sensitive
positions are my specialty.” He grinned. “You look tired, Delia.”

“Yeah. I've
been hearing that.”

“Why don't I
fix you dinner one night this week? A nice, quiet evening. I'll check my book.”

“That'd be
great.”

When he leaned
down to brush his lips over hers, she closed her eyes, waited for the thrill.
And wanted to scream when it didn't come. It was, she thought, like kissing her
brother. If any of her brothers happened to be gorgeous as sin.

“What's
troubling you, sweetheart?”

“Bunch of
stuff.” She grumbled. “Bunch of stupid stuff. I'm working it out.”

“If you want
to talk about it, you know I'm here.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Eve came out
of the kitchen and headed straight for the door. “Let's move, Peabody. Get me a
name, Charles, soon as you can.”

“Dallas?” With
a quick, apologetic glance at Charles, Peabody ran to catch up. “What is it?”

“We've got
another one.”

CHAPTER SIX

He'd left her
on the bed, her legs obscenely spread, her eyes gaping. Some of the pink petals
stuck to her skin. Candlewax had spilled and hardened into cold pools over the
holders onto the table, the little dresser, the floor, and the cheap, colorful
rug.

It was a tiny
efficiency apartment that the young woman named Grace Lutz had tried to make
cheerful and cozy with frilled curtains and inexpensive prints in inexpensive
frames.

Now it stank
of death, stale sex, and scented candles.

There was a
wine bottle, this time a cabernet. And this time nearly empty. The music came
from a cheap audio unit beside the convertible sofa that served as a bed.

There was no
mood screen, no video screen, and only a single 'link. But there were books,
carefully tended and set proudly on the painted shelf along one wall. There
were photographs of Grace with a man and woman Eve took to be her parents.
There was a small glass vase filled with spring daisies that were shedding
their petals on the dresser top.

The kitchen
was no more than a corner with a twoburner stove, a stingy sink, and a
mini-fridge. Inside the fridge were a carton of egg substitute, a quart of
milk, and a small jar of strawberry jam.

There were no
bottles of wine but the one that had killed her.

Grace hadn't
spent money on things, Eve mused. Nor on fashion if the contents of her closet
were any indication. But, though she'd worked in a library, she'd spent it on
books.

And on what
looked to be a new dress, now carelessly heaped on the floor.

“He knew what
he was doing this time. There's no panic here. What there is, is deliberation.”

“Physically
they're very different types,” Peabody pointed out. “This girl's white bread,
sort of tiny. Nails are short and neat and unpolished. Nothing slick or flashy
about her.”

“Yeah,
economically they're from different brackets. Socially, too. This one was a
stay-at-home.” She looked at the dried blood on the sheets, the smears of it on
the victim's inner thighs. “The ME's going to confirm she was a virgin.” She
bent down. “She's got bruising, thighs, hips, breasts. He was rough with this
one. Check the security, Peabody, see what we've got to work with.”

“Yes, sir.”

Why did he
hurt you? Eve wondered as she studied
the body. Why did he want to?

Crouched there
beside the dead, she saw herself huddled in the corner. Broken, bruised,
bloody.

Because I
can.

She shoved the
image away as she got to her feet. Pain could be sexual, it could be a kind of
seduction. But it wasn't romantic. Yet he'd still set the stage with rose
petals and candlelight, with wine and music.

Why did this
stage seem to be a mockery of romance rather than a cliched attempt at it? Too
much wine had been drunk, and some of it spilled on the table and rug. The
candles had been allowed to spread into messy drips and pools. The sleeve of
her new dress had been torn.

There was a
violence here, an underlying meanness that had been absent from the first
murder. Was he losing control? Had he found the killing more exciting than the
sex?

Peabody came
back in. “Security at the front entrance only. I've got the disc from last
night. No cams in corridors or elevators.”

“Okay. Let's
talk to the neighbor.”

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

Notifying next
of kin never got easier. It never became routine. Eve stood with Peabody on the
small square stoop outside the small square duplex. There were red and white
geraniums arranged in a cheerful chorus line on either side of the entrance and
a frill of white curtains framing the front window.

Behind them,
the neighborhood was quiet as a church with its green-leafed trees and little
gardens and narrow, tidy streets.

She didn't
understand the suburbs with their regimental order and boxy yards and useless
fences. Nor did she understand why so many considered a house in the 'burbs as
a kind of mecca they would someday reach.

In her mind,
everyone would someday reach a coffin, too.

She rang the
bell and heard the three chimes that echoed inside. When the door opened and
she said what needed to be said, nothing would ever be the same in this house
again.

The woman who
answered was pretty and blonde. It was the woman from the dresser photograph.
Must be the mother. Eve saw the resemblance immediately.

“Mrs. Lutz?”

“Yes.” Though
she smiled, it was a quick reflex action, and her eyes were both puzzled and
distracted. “May I help you?”

“I'm
Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve offered her badge. “NYPSD. This is my aide, Officer
Peabody. May we come in?”

“What's this
about?” The woman lifted a hand to brush at her hair, and the first sign of
nerves showed in the faint tremor.

“It's about
your daughter, Mrs. Lutz. It's about Grace. May we come in?”

“Grace? She's
not in any trouble, is she?” The smile tried to spread, but only fell away from
her face. “My Gracie's never in trouble.”

So it had to
be done in the doorway, with the bright flowers a soldier's guard. “Mrs. Lutz,
I'm sorry to tell you Grace is dead.”

Her eyes went
blank. “She is not.” There was a crack of irritation in her voice. “Of course
she's not. What a terrible thing to say. I want you to go away right now. I want
you to go away from here.”

Eve braced a
hand on the door before it closed in her face. “Mrs. Lutz, Grace was killed
last night. I'm the primary investigator, and I'm very sorry for your loss. You
need to let us in now.”

“My Grace? My
baby?”

Eve said nothing
now, but slid an arm around the woman's waist. The door opened into the living
area with a plump blue sofa and two sturdy chairs. Eve led her to the sofa, sat
beside her.

“Is there
someone we can call for you, Mrs. Lutz? Your husband?”

“George.
George is at school. He teaches at the high school. Grace.” She looked around
blindly as though her daughter might walk into the room.

“Peabody, make
the call.”

“You've made a
mistake, haven't you?” Mrs. Lutz gripped Eve's hand with frozen fingers.
“That's all. You've just made a mistake. Grace works in the city, at the
library on Fifth Avenue. I'll just call her and we'll all feel much better.”

“Mrs. Lutz.
There's no mistake.”

“There has to
be. George and I went into the city only Sunday and took her to dinner. She was
fine.” The anger and shock were breaking down so tears flooded through them.
“She was fine.”

“I know. I'm
sorry.”

“What happened
to my baby? Was there an accident?”

“There wasn't
an accident. Grace was murdered.”

“It's just not
possible.” Her head shook, as if gently tugged side-to-side with invisible
strings. “It's just not possible.”

Eve let her
weep. She knew that first roll of grief flattened everything else.

“He's on his
way,” Peabody murmured.

“Good. Get her
some water or something.”

She sat beside
the sobbing woman, scanning the living area. There were books here, displayed
like treasures on shelves. There was a quiet order to everything, and the
sturdiness of solid middle-class living. A framed hologram of Grace stood on a
table.

“What happened
to my baby?”

Eve shifted,
looked into Mrs. Lutz's shattered face. “Last night Grace met a man she'd been
corresponding with by e-mail and in chat rooms. We believe this man doctored
her drink or drinks during the evening with a substance known to be used in
date rapes.”

“Oh God.” Mrs.
Lutz wrapped her arms around her belly and began to rock. “Oh my God.”

“Evidence
indicates that he returned with her to her apartment, continued to give her
illegals until she overdosed.”

“She would
never take illegals.”

“We don't
believe she was aware, Mrs. Lutz.”

“He gave them
to her because he wanted to ...” She pressed her lips together in a tight white
line. Then breathed out, one long ragged sound. “He raped her.”

“We suspect
that's true. I...” How far did you go? Eve wondered. How much could you help?
“Mrs. Lutz, if it's any comfort to you, Grace wouldn't have been afraid. She
wouldn't have been in pain.”

“Why would
anyone hurt her? What kind of person does that to an innocent young girl?”

“I can't tell
you, but I can tell you I'll find him. I need you to help me.”

Mrs. Lutz laid
her head back. “What can I do if she's gone?”

“Did she have
any boyfriends?”

“Robbie.
Robbie Dwyer. They dated in high school, and a bit in the first few semesters
of college. He's a nice boy. His mother and I belong to the same book club.”
Her voice wavered. “I suppose we'd hoped more would come of it, but it was more
friendship than romance. Grace wanted to move to the city, and Robbie got a job
teaching here. They drifted apart.”

“How long ago
did they drift?”

“If you're
thinking Robbie would do this, anything like this, you're wrong. I've known him
since he was a baby. Anyway, he's seeing a very nice girl now.”

“Did she ever
talk about anyone she was interested in, or who was interested in her? In the
city?”

“No, not
really. She worked very hard, and she was studying as well. She's shy. My
Gracie's shy. It's hard for her to meet new people. That's why I encouraged her
to move to ...” She broke down again. “George wanted her to stay here, to teach
and stay in the nest. I pushed her out, just little nudges, because I wanted
her to fly. Now I've lost her. Will you take me to her? When George gets here,
will you take us to our baby?”

“Yes. I'll
take you to her.”

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

Commander Whitney
was on the 'link when he motioned Eve into his office. He didn't gesture to a
chair, nor did she make any move to sit. His wide face was creased with lines,
a map that showed the routes of stress, battles, and authority. His suit was a
rich coffee color, nearly the same tone as his skin. In it he looked both beefy
and tough. A combination, Eve had always thought, that made him appear as
natural behind a desk as he did in the field.

A fluted bowl
sat on the right corner of his desk. It was filled with cerulean water with
smooth, colored stones shimmering in the base. While she puzzled over it, she
caught the quick flash of scarlet.

“My wife,”
Whitney said when he ended the call. “She thinks it cheers up the office.
Supposed to relax me. What the hell am I supposed to do with a damn fish?”

“I couldn't
say, sir.”

For a moment
both of them studied the red streak that circled the bowl. Knowing the
commander's wife was keen on fashion and decor, Eve searched for a polite
comment.

“It's fast.”

“Crazy thing
spins around like that most of the day. I get tired just looking at it.”

“At that rate
it'll probably wear itself out and die within a couple weeks.”

“Your mouth to
God's ear. Where's your aide, Lieutenant?”

“I've got her
running cross-checks on the two victims. We've found no evidence to support a
relationship between them. They both liked books, poetry in particular. Both
spent time in cyber-rooms. At this point we can't place them in the same chat
or club at the same time.”

He sat back.
“What have you got?”

“The
across-the-hall neighbor of Lutz's, Angela Nicko, found the body this morning.
They had a regular morning coffee date, and when Lutz didn't show, didn't
answer her door, Ms. Nicko was concerned enough to open the door with her spare
key. Nicko is a retired librarian, well into her nineties.”

And had cried,
Eve thought wearily, cried silent tears while she'd given her statement.

“At this point
she appears to be the only resident of the apartment building the victim had
regular contact with. Lutz is described as a quiet, polite young woman who
rarely varied her routine. She went to work, she came home. Twice a week she
stopped in the neighborhood market for supplies. Other than Nicko, she had no
close friends, no lovers. She was doing a part-time, in-home course to get her
degree in library science.”

“The security
cams?”

“One, at
entrance. As trace evidence at the first scene confirmed, the suspect wears a
disguise, we're assuming he was doing so again. I'm waiting for lab reports.
His appearance was markedly different in the second murder. Short, straight
blonde hair, lantern-jaw, wide brow, dark brown eyes, pale gold complexion.”

Eve stared at
the fish. It was making her dizzy, but she couldn't look away. “There was a
different attitude, as well. A deliberation, and a pleasure in the violence
that wasn't apparent in the first killing. We're working to trace the first
wig, the enhancements. We're also pursuing the cyber-angle, and continue to
look for another connection between the victims. I've requested a consult with
Dr. Mira, and am copying her all files and reports to date.”

“The media
hasn't yet sniffed out the connection, but we won't keep it that way for long.”

“In this case,
sir, the media might be an advantage. If women are made aware of the potential
dangers, the suspect's pool gets shallow. I'd like to leak some of the data to
Nadine Furst at Channel Seventy-five.”

He pursed his
lips. “Make sure the leak doesn't become a flood before we're ready for it.”

“Yes, sir. I
have some more sources on the illegals angle, and I've asked Feeney to use his
contacts within the department in that area. Neither drug is common. When I
find the supplier, I may need room to deal.”

“We'll work
that out when you find the supplier. But I can tell you there won't be much
room. Politically, these illegals are a hot button. We go soft on a supplier,
we'll have feminist's organizations, social balance, and moral watchdog groups
taking numbers to kick us in the teeth.”

“And if
dealing with the supplier saves lives?”

“For a lot of
these people, that won't matter. They deal in principles, not individuals. Work
the angles, Lieutenant, do the checklist and get this bastard before we have
more dead. And a public relations nightmare.”

Eve didn't
give a rat's skinny ass about public relations. Since this wasn't a well-kept
secret, it was no surprise that Nadine expressed some suspicion at being
offered inside data.

“What kind of
happy bullshit is this, Dallas?”

Eve had
waited, deliberately, until she was home rather than at Central to contact
Nadine. It seemed to her that made the exchange friendly rather than official.

“I'm doing you
a favor.”

Nadine,
already polished for an on-air segment, lifted one perfectly arched brow, let
her coral-slicked mouth curve. “You, Lieutenant Locked Lips, are going to, of
your own free will and out of a sense of camaraderie, give me data on an
ongoing investigation.”

“That's
right.”

“Just a
minute.” Nadine's face disappeared from the 'link screen for ten seconds. “Just
wanted to check with the meteorologist. It appears, despite indications to the
contrary, hell has not frozen over.”

“Pardon me
while I fall into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. You want the data or not?”

“Yeah, I want
it.”

“A top police
source confirms that the investigations of the Bryna Bankhead and the Grace
Lutz cases are linked.”

“Hold on.”
Everything about Nadine sharpened as she leaped into full reporter mode.
“There's been no confirmation to this point as to whether the Bankhead death
was accidental, self-termination, or homicide.”

“It's
homicide. Confirmed.”

“My
information is that the Lutz murder was sexual homicide.” Nadine's voice was
brisk now. All business. “Is that the case in the Bankhead homicide? Did the
victims know each other, and are we dealing with one suspect?”

“Don't
interview me, Nadine. This isn't a one-on-one. Both victims were young, single
women who, on the night of their deaths, met with an individual they had
corresponded with via e-mail and online chat rooms.”

“What kind of
chat rooms? Where did they meet?”

“Shut up,
Nadine. Evidence indicates that both victims were given an illegal substance,
possibly without their knowledge, during the evening.”

“A date rape
drug?”

“You're quick.
Your source neither denies nor confirms that information. Take the freebie,
Nadine, and run with it. That's all you get for now.”

“I can get out
of here in ninety minutes. I'll meet you wherever you want.”

“Not tonight.
I'll let you know where or when.”

“Wait!” If it
had been possible, Nadine would have burst through the 'link screen. “Give me
something on the suspect. Do you have a description, a name?”

“All avenues
of investigation are being vigorously pursued. Blah, blah, blah.” Eve broke
transmission on Nadine's curse.

Satisfied, she
walked into the kitchen, ordered coffee. Then just stood by the window, looking
out at the gathering dark.

He was out
there now. Somewhere. Did he already have another date? Was he, even now,
making himself into some hopeful woman's fantasy?

Tomorrow, the
next day, would there be other friends, more family she would have to shatter?

The Lutzes
would never fully recover. They'd go on with their lives, and after a while
they wouldn't think of it every minute of every day. They'd laugh again, work,
shop, breathe in and out. But there would always be a hole. Just a little
hollow inside their lives.

They'd been a
family. A unit. She'd sensed that unification in the house. In the comfort and
clutter of it. In the flowers outside the door, and the easy give of the sofa.

Now rather
than parents, they were survivors. Those who survived lived forever with that
echo of what was gone sounding inside their heads.

They'd kept
her room, Eve thought now while her coffee sat in the AutoChef going cold. When
she'd gone through it, looking for something, anything to add to the sum of
Grace Lutz, she'd seen the stages of a life, from child to young girl to young
woman.

Dolls
carefully arranged on a shelf. Decoration now rather than toys, but still
treasured. Books, photographs, holograms. Trinket boxes in the shapes of hearts
or flowers. The bed had had a canopy the color of sunbeams, and the walls had
been virgin white.

Eve couldn't
imagine growing up there, in all that sweet, girlish fuss. Ruffled curtains at
the windows, the inexpensive minicomputer on the desk that had been decorated
with daisies to match the shade on the bedside lamp.

The girl who's
slept in that bed, read by that lamplight had been happy, secure, and loved.

Eve had never
had a doll, nor curtains at the windows. There'd been no precious little pieces
of girlhood to tuck away in heart-shaped boxes. The childhood rooms she
remembered were cramped, anonymous boxes in cheap hotels where the walls were
thin and often, too often, things skittered in dark corners.

The air
smelled stale, and there was no place to hide, no place to run if he came back
and wasn't drunk enough to forget you were there.

The girl who
had slept in those beds, trembled in those shadows had been terrified,
desperate, and lost.

She jolted as
a hand touched her shoulder, and instinctively reached for her weapon as she
spun around.

“Steady,
Lieutenant.” Roarke ran his hand down her arm, rested it lightly on her weapon
hand as he studied her face. “Where were you?”

“Trying to
make a circle.” She eased away from him, opened the AutoChef for her coffee. “I
didn't know you were home.”

“I haven't
been for long.” He laid his hands on her shoulders now, rubbed at the tension.
“Did you have a memory flash?”

She shook her
head, sipped the cold coffee, continued to stare out the window into the dark.
But she knew if she didn't rid herself of it, it could fester. “When you were
gone,” she began, “I had a dream. A bad one. He wasn't dead. He was covered
with blood, but he wasn't dead. He talked to me. He said I'd never kill him,
never get away.”

She saw
Roarke's reflection in the glass, saw her own merging with it. “He had to
punish me. He got up. Blood was pouring out of him, but he stood up. And he
came for me.”

“He is dead,
Eve.” Roarke took the cup out of her hand, set it aside, then turned her to
face him. “He can't hurt you. Except in dreams.”

“He said to
remember what he'd told me, but I can't. I don't know what he meant. But I asked
him why he hurt me. He said because I was nothing and no one, but most of all
he hurt me because he could. I can't seem to take that power away from him.
Even now I can't.”

“You diminish
him every time you stand for a victim. Maybe the further away you get from him
in reality, the harder it is to pull back in dreams. I don't know.” He skimmed
his fingers through her hair. “Will you talk to Mira?”

“I don't know.
No,” she corrected. “She can't tell me anything I don't know.”

Are ready
to know, Roarke thought, and let it
be.

“Anyway, I
need her for a consult on the murders.”

“Another?”

“Yeah. So I've
got to put more hours in.”

“Was it the
same man?”

She didn't
answer, but wandered back into her office. She didn't want the coffee after
all. Instead she kept moving, let it all play through her head as she gave him
the basic details of the second murder.

“If there's a
local source for the illegals used, I could track it for you.”

She looked at
him, elegant in his dark business suit. It didn't pay to forget there was a
dangerous man inside it, one who had once trafficked with other dangerous men.

Roarke
Industries might have been the most powerful conglomerate in the world, but it
had been born, like its owner, in the dark alleys and grim streets of Dublin's
slums.

“I don't want
you to do that,” she told him. “Not yet. If Charles and Feeney both crap out, I
may tag you. But I'd as soon you didn't make a connection with that particular
area.”

“My connection
would be no different than yours, only quicker.”

“Yeah, it's
different. I'm the one with a badge. You know a lot of women.”

“Lieutenant.
That portion of my past is a closed book.”

“Yeah, right.
What I'm saying is, in my experience, most guys generally go for a type. Maybe
they like brainy women, or subservient women, or jocks, whatever.”

He moved in on
her. “What type do you suppose I go for?”

“You just
scooped them up as they fell at your feet, so you went for the variety pack.”

“I definitely
don't recall you falling at my feet.”

“And don't
hold your breath on that one. You don't count so much because you'd never have
to go fishing in the cyber-pool for a date or sex or anything.”

“You're not
making that sound complimentary.”

“But what I'm
saying is, people generally have expectations, or fantasy types. Date number
one. Savvy, sophisticated, urban female with a romantic bent. Slick dresser,
sharp looker. Snappy apartment, sexually active when she can get it. Outgoing,
friendly. She likes fashion, poetry, and music. Spends her money on clothes,
good restaurants, salons. May or may not be looking for Mr. Right, but would
really enjoy a Mr. Right Now.”

“And,” Roarke
put in, “is adventurous enough to audition a candidate over drinks.”

“Exactly. Date
number two, solid middle-class suburban background. Shy, quiet, intellectual.
Hoards what money she has to buy books, pay the rent on an efficiency
apartment. Rarely eats out, and spends fifteen or twenty minutes every morning
with a female neighbor old enough to be her grandmother. She has no other close
friends in the city. She's very young and still a virgin. She's looking for a
soul mate. The one man she's saved herself for.”

“And is naive
enough to believe she's found him without ever having met him.”

“One is
introverted, the other extroverted. Physically they are nothing alike. In the
first case, the murder appeared to have been unplanned, and the killer
panicked. There were no signs of violence on the body that were inflicted
pre-mortem. Sexual activity was vaginal only.”

She picked up
a disc from her file, slid it into her computer. “In the second case, the
murder appeared to have been premeditated, and the killer was deliberate in the
execution. There were signs of violence, bruises, small bites. The victim was
repeatedly and roughly raped, and sodomized. It could be theorized that he
became ... encouraged, aroused, intrigued by the first murder and decided to
have the experience again, purposefully, more aggressively this time as the act
excited him.”

With a nod,
Roarke walked over to stand with her. “It could be.”

“Image on wall
screen,” Eve ordered. “I've done a split screen with the security cam feed from
the entrance of each victim's building. That's Bankhead on the right. We know
the killer is wearing a wig, face putty, and makeup. With this look he goes by
the name Dante. On the left is Lutz, and there he goes by Dorian. The face jobs
are good. Body type, height, more or less the same. Each can be altered easily
enough -- lifts, padding in the shoulders.”

She'd already
studied the images, over and over. She knew what she was seeing now.

“Note how
Dante holds her hand, kisses her fingers, holds the door open for her. The
perfect dream date. Dorian's got his arm around her waist. She's looking up at him,
starry-eyed as they approach the door. He's not looking at her, no eye contact.
It doesn't matter to him who she is. She's already dead.”

She switched
images. “Here, Dante's coming out. You can see the panic, the sweat. Christ,
he's thinking, how did this happen? How will I get out of it? But you see here,
the exit from Grace's place. The way he strolls out, almost a swagger, the way
he looks back and smirks. He's thinking: That was fun. When can I do it again?”

“The first
theory would hold,” Roarke commented. “He's building confidence and need and
pleasure. A second would be he has different personalities for different looks,
for different women. But you've a third theory.” Roarke looked away from the
screen, looked at Eve. “You think you're after two men.”

“Maybe it's
too simple. Maybe it's what he wants me to think.” She sat, stared at the split
screen again. “I can't get inside him. I ran a probability on two killers. It
came in just over forty-three percent.”

“Computers
don't have instincts.” He came over to sit on the edge of the desk. “What do
you see?”

“Different
body language, different styles, different types. But it could be role-playing.
Maybe he's an actor. Drinks at an expensive, romantic location, then the return
to the victim's apartment. He doesn't dirty his own nest. Candles, wine, music,
roses. So he uses the same staging. I haven't got the results back on DNA, but
the sweepers didn't find any fingerprints but the victim's and her neighbor's
in Grace Lutz's apartment. Not on the wine bottle or the glasses, and not on
her body. He sealed this time. Why is that, when he knew we'd have prints from
the first murder?”

“If there are
two -- in reality or by personality split -- they know each other intimately.
Brothers of a sort,” Roarke said when Eve looked over. “Partners. And this is a
game.”

“And they'd
keep score. One each. They'd need a tiebreaker. I'm going to set up here to
monitor some of the chat rooms where one of the screen names popped before.”

“Do it from my
office. My equipment's faster, and there's more of it. Plus,” he added, knowing
she was trying to think of a reason to refuse, “I can give you the list of the
wine purchases.”

“Can you
cross-reference that with purchases of Castillo di Vechio Cabernet,
forty-three?”

“I can,” he agreed,
pulling her to her feet. “If somebody keeps me company and has a glass of wine
with me.”

“One glass,”
she said and moved over into his office with him. “I may be at this for a
while.”

“Just plug in
the locations you want to monitor on this unit.”

She skirted
the long black console, stood for a moment in front of one of his several sleek
units. “I have to get them from the file.”

“Computer.
Access Unit Six, Eve.” He perused the wine bottles in the rack behind his
office bar. “Just enter the file name you want,” he told Eve, “and request
copy.”

“Is there any
point in saying that I keep official NYPSD data on my home unit, and you have
no authorization to access that data?”

“None
whatsoever. Something light, I think. Ah, this.” He drew out a bottle, turned,
chuckled at her scowling face. “Why don't we have a bite to eat while we're at
it?”

“Remind me to
rag on you later.”

He opened the
bottle. “I'll make a note of it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

She sipped
wine, nibbled on caviar, and tried not to think how ridiculous it was. If
anyone from Central caught wind of it, she'd never live it down.

Roarke did the
same, and prepared to enjoy it. “Key in the screen names you want to watch
for.”

“DanteNYC,”
she said. “DorianNYC. Feeney's running names ending with NYC, but -- “

“Yes, we can
run another search. You'll end up with millions, I imagine, but we might get
lucky.”

“What about
the account name? He may cruise with other screen names, or ditch the old ones
when he's done.”

“Here, nudge
over.” He scooted her chair a few inches to the left, then sat beside her.
“Computer, run continuous search for all activity under account name La Belle
Dame.”

Beginning
search...

“Feeney said
you had to go through the privacy blocks and account protocol in order to...”
She trailed off, lifted her glass when Roarke merely quirked his eyebrows in
her direction. “Never mind.”

“Computer,
notify if and when activity under said account takes place, and locate source
of activity.”

Search in
process. Notification will be given. Working ...

“It can't be
that simple.”

“Not usually,
no.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Aren't you lucky to have me? A rhetorical
question, darling,” he said and stuffed caviar into her mouth. “Just let me put
that consumer list on-screen.”

He did so
manually, with a few deft taps on a keyboard. Eve watched them scroll on, blew
out a breath.

“It could be
worse,” she decided. “It could have been cheap wine, then we'd have, oh, a
hundred times as many names.”

“More than
that, I imagine. We can break these down into individual sales and restaurant
orders. Now we'll see what we can find on the Cabernet.”

“Is that your
label, too?”

“No, a
competitor's. But there are ways. This will take a few minutes.”

Because she
thought it slightly tacky for a member of the NYPSD to sit and watch a civilian
severely bend the law, she rose and wandered closer to the wall screen.
“Computer, display single male consumers on screen four.”

That whittled
it down some more, she noted. She couldn't and wouldn't discount the
restaurant, the female, and the joint accounts, but she'd start with the two
hundred recorded sales to single men.

“Computer.
Display, screen five, multiple purchases of product by single men. Better,” she
mumbled as the number went down by another eighty-six.

“You got that
data yet?”

“Patience,
Lieutenant.” He glanced up, then just looked at her in a way that made her skin
tingle and her thigh muscles go loose.

“What?”

“You're such a
study, standing there -- all cop. Cool-eyed and grim with your weapon strapped
on. It makes my mouth water.” With a half laugh he went back to work. “Baffles
me. Here you are, split on screen three.”

“Do you say
that sort of thing to get me stirred up?”

“No, but it's
a pleasant side benefit. You're also quite a study when you're stirred up. My
red edged out the competition's red by a few hundred sales in the area over the
past twelve months.”

“Big
surprise,” she said sourly, and turned around to repeat the same breakdown.
“Computer, cross and match, all consumer purchases of both brands in given time
period. Less than thirty.” She pursed her lips. “I figured more.”

“Label
loyalty.”

“We'll start
with these. Standard run, eliminate males over fifty for a start. Our guy, or
guys, are younger. Then I have to re-factor. Could be daddy who buys the wine,
or uncle, or big brother. Or,” she added, glancing back at the screen with
joint accounts. “Mom and Dad. But I don't think so.” She began to pace. “I need
Mira's profile, but I just don't think so. Seems to me it's not romantic, it's
not sexual if your parent or parents buy the wine. Then you're a child again
and you're, by Christ, a man and you can prove it.

“You can pluck
a woman right out of the pack,” she continued. “Pick of the litter, and your
choice. Women are merciless, from the poem. They'll crush you if you give them
the chance. So you won't. You're in charge this time.”

She stared at
the names, moved away from them, then back again. “Women. Bitches, whores,
goddesses. You desire them, sexually, but more than that, you want power.
Absolute power over them. So you plan, hunt, select. You've seen her, but she
hasn't seen you. You have to see her, have to make absolutely certain she is
attractive enough, that she hasn't created the fantasy of herself the same way
you've created yourself. She has to be real. She has to be worthy. You wouldn't
waste your time on anyone or anything that's less than you deserve.”

Fascinated,
Roarke sat back. “What does he do?”

“He selects.
He arranges. He seduces with words, with images. Then he prepares. The wine.
One that suits his taste, his mood. No one else's. Candles, scented to please
his senses. The illegals, so that he has control. He won't be refused. More,
he'll be desired. Desperately desired.”

“Is it about
sex?”

She shook her
head, still studying names. “Desire. That's different. To be desired by his
choice. That's as vital as his control over her. She must want him. He
goes to too much trouble to make himself an object of desire for it to be only
about control and power. He has a need to be the focus, the center because it's
his moment. His game. His victory.”

“His
pleasure,” Roarke added.

“Yes, his
pleasure. But he needs her to think it's hers as well. He stands at the mirror
and makes himself into what he'd like to be, and what he believes a woman
wants. Dashing, sexy, stunningly handsome, but elegant. The kind of man who
quotes poetry and woos with roses. The kind who makes that woman believe she's
the only woman. Maybe he believes it. Or did, with the first one. Maybe he
deluded himself into believing it was romance. But under it's calculation. He's
a predator.”

“Men are.”

She glanced
back. “That's right. Humans are, but sexually men are more basic. Sex is more
easily viewed as a function where women, in general, prefer an emotional rush
along with it. These women did, and he was aware of it. He took the time to
know them first, to discover their weaknesses and their fantasies so he could
play on both. Then he controlled them. Like a droid, only they were flesh and
blood. They were real, so the thrill was real. When it was over, they were
spoiled. He'd made them whores again, so they stopped being worthy. He'll need
to find the next.”

“You were
wrong when you said you couldn't get inside him. I wonder how you can be so
much what you are and still look so clearly, so coldly, through the eyes of the
mad and the vicious.”

“Because I
won't lose. I can't lose or they all win. Right back to my father.”

“I know it.”
He rose, walked to her. Wrapped his arms tight around her. “I've never been
sure if you did.”

Notification
of activity, account La Belle Dame...

Eve jerked her
body free, whirled. “Screen name of user and location of activity.”

User name
OberonNYC, location Cyber Perks, Fifth Avenue at Fifty-eighth ...

She was
running for the door when Roarke pulled it open. “I'll drive,” he told her.

She didn't
bother to argue. Any one of his vehicles would be faster than hers. She grabbed
her communicator on the race down the steps.

“Dispatch,
this is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

Detailing
orders, she snagged her jacket and headed out the front door.

It took them
six minutes and twenty-eight seconds from the notification to Roarke's swing to
the curb in front of Cyber Perks. She timed it. And she was leaping out of the
car before the brakes stopped squealing.

At a run, she
spotted the black-and-white and the uniforms she'd ordered.

“No one
leaves,” she snapped, flipping out her badge, then sliding it shield out into
the waistband of her trousers.

The noise
blasted her the instant she walked through the doors. Cyber-punk rolled like a
tidal wave, swamping the voices of patrons and beating violently against
eardrums.

It was a world
she'd yet to explore, and it was jammed elbow to groin with a motley throng who
sat at counters, tables, cubes or airskated between stations. But even in the
stupendous confusion, she saw the order.

Freaks with
their painted hair and tongue rings were strewn across a section of color-coded
table space. The geeks, earnest faces and sloppy shirts, were huddled in cubes.
Giggly teenage girls skated in herds and pretended not to notice the packs of
teenage boys they sought to allure.

There were
students, most of whom were gathered in the cafe area trying to look
sophisticated and world weary. Pocketed with them were a smatter of the
standard urban revolutionaries, uniformed in sleek black, which students
worshiped.

Scattered
throughout were the tourists, the travelers, the casual clientele who sought
the atmosphere, the experience, or were simply scoping out the place as a
possible fresh hangout.

Where would
her man fit?

Tracking the
room, she strode to the glass kiosk marked Data Center. Three drones in red
uniforms sat on swivel chairs in the center of the tower and worked consoles.
They kept up what appeared to be a running conversation through headphones.

Eve zoned in on
one, tapped on the glass. The boy, with a smattering of fresh pimples on his
chin, looked up. He shook his head, attempted to look stern and authoritative,
and gestured to the headphones on Eve's side of the glass.

She shoved
them on.

“Don't touch
the tower,” he ordered in a voice that was just waiting to crack. “Stay behind
the green line at all times. There are open units in the cafe. If you prefer,
there is currently one cube available. If you wish to reserve a unit for -- “

“Kill the
music.”

“What?” His
eyes darted like nervous birds. “Stay behind the green line or I'll call
security.”

“Kill the
music,” Eve repeated, then slapped her badge on the glass. “Now.”

“But -- but I
can't. I'm not allowed. Whatzamatter? Charlie?” He whipped around in his chair.
And all hell broke loose.

The roar that
burst out of the crowd outdid even the computer-generated ferocity of the
music. People leaped off stools, out of cubes, screaming, shouting, cursing. A
wave of them charged the data kiosk like peasants storming the king's palace.
Full of fear and fury and blood lust.

Even as she
reached for her weapon, she took a wayward elbow on the chin that rapped her
head back against the kiosk and exploded a fountain of white, sizzling stars in
front of her eyes.

And that seriously
pissed her off.

She kneed a
green-haired freak in the groin, stomped hard on the instep of a wailing geek,
then fired three blasts at the ceiling.

It served to
stop most of the momentum, though several bodies tumbled or were simply flung
in the general direction of the kiosk.

“NYPSD!” She
shouted it, holding up badge and weapon. “Kill that fucking music. Now!
Everybody back off, go back to your seats or stations immediately or you'll be
charged with rioting, assault, and creating a public hazard.”

Not all of it
got through, and some of her orders were lost in the swarm of voices and
threats. But the more civic minded, or cowardly, slunk back.

One of the
teenage girls lay sprawled at Eve's feet, airskates tangled. She was bleeding
from the nose and weeping in jerky hiccoughs.

“You're okay.”
Eve nudged her as gently as she could with her foot. “Sit up now.”

The shouts
from various sections were gaining strength again. Civic duty and cowardice
wouldn't hold on for long against mob passion.

“Nothing will
be resolved until I have order, until I have quiet.”

“This is a
guaranteed virus-free zone,” someone shouted. “I want to know what happened, I
want to know who's responsible.”

So,
apparently, did a number of other people.

Roarke cleaved
his way through the crowd. Like, Eve thought as she watched him, a
sleek blade slicing through a jumble of rock.

“A virus was
uploaded into the system,” he said softly. “Corrupted the units. All of them,
and from all appearances, simultaneously. You've got a couple hundred very
angry people on your hands.”

“Yeah, I got
that part. Get out of here. Call for backup.”

“I'm not
leaving you in here, and don't waste your breath. Let me talk to them while you
call in the troops.”

Before she
could argue, he began to speak. He didn't raise his voice. It was a good
technique, Eve thought as she slipped out her communicator. A lot of people
stopped yelling to try to hear what he was saying.

She could hear
him fine, but she didn't understand half the cyber-speak he was rattling off.

“Lieutenant
Dallas. I have a situation at Cyber Perks, Fifth Avenue, and require immediate
assistance.”

As she
detailed the circumstances, she watched another portion of the mob quiet, slip
back to tables. By her head count they were down to about fifty hard cases,
spearheaded by the revolutionaries who were blathering about conspiracies and
cyber-wars and communication terrorists.

It was time,
she decided, to change tactics again. She zeroed in on one man. Black shirt,
black jeans, black boots, with a shock of gilded, deliberately disordered hair.

Eve stepped up
in his face. “Maybe you didn't hear me tell you to go back to your table or
station.”

“This is a
public place. It's my civil right to stand and speak.”

“And it's
within my authority to deny you that right when you use it to incite a riot.
When you or anyone claiming that right is responsible for bodily harm or
property damage.” She gestured to the young girl who sat up, still weeping
quietly as a friend mopped at the blood on her face. “They look like terrorists
to you? Or him?” She jerked a thumb back to where the boy she'd spoken to had
his terrified white face pressed against the kiosk glass.

“Pawns are
used and discarded.”

“Yeah, and
kids get hurt because people like you want to masturbate your ego in public.”

“The NYPSD is
nothing but a soiled tool used by the hands of the right-wing bureaucrats and
demigods to crush the will and freedom of the common man.”

“Come on, stay
on target. Is it communication terrorists and cyber-war or is it bureaucratic
demigods? You can't cover all the bases at one time. Tell you what. You go sit
down and I'll have somebody come over to listen to all your fascinating
theories. But right now there are some people in here who require medical
assistance. You're hampering that, and my investigation of what transpired here
tonight.”

He smirked at
her. Always a mistake. “Why don't you finish violating my civil rights and
arrest me?”

“Okay.” She'd
already planned her move, and had him cuffed before he could think to resist.
“Next?” she asked, very pleasantly even as backup streamed in the door. He was
shouting again as she passed him to a uniform.

“Not bad,”
Roarke commented. “For the soiled tool of right-wing demigods.”

“Thanks. I
need time to re-establish some order.” She scanned the faces. “He's not here
anymore.”

“No,” Roarke
agreed. “He's not here. I'd say he was out before your uniforms arrived. Why
don't I talk to the data crunchers? See what I can find out for you?”

“Appreciate
it.”

She
interviewed and released the injured first, then sprang the under-twenty and
over-fifty crowd. Out-of-towners came next, then the remaining women. Even as
she took data, formed impressions, listed names, she was certain her bird had
flown.

Left with
staff, she set them in the cafe and joined Roarke at a private cube. The
monitor of the unit was, like every other she'd seen, swimming with chaotic
colors and strange symbols. Beside it was a tall mug of some fancy coffee
mixture.

“Is this the
source?” she asked him.

“It is, yes.
I'll need to -- “

“Don't touch
anything!” She grabbed his wrist. “Don't -- touch -- anything,” she repeated,
then signalled a uniform. “I need a CS kit.”

“We've only
got minis in the patrols.”

“That'll do.
Then, Officer Rinksy,” she added scanning his nameplate, “you can inform the
guy in charge around here that this joint is closed by order of the NYPSD until
further notice.”

“Won't that be
fun?” With surprising cheer, Rinksy walked off to get the kit.

“I wasn't,”
Roarke said when she turned back to him, “going to touch anything. This is
hardly my first day on the job, Lieutenant.”

“Don't get
pissy. And it's my job, not yours. How do you know this is the source?”

He circled his
fingers, examined his manicure. “I'm sorry.” He smiled absently. “Did you say
something? I'm just biding time, waiting to take my lovely wife home when she
finishes work.”

“Jeez. Okay,
okay, sorry I jumped on you. I'm a little tense. Would you tell me, since
you're so brave and strong and smart, how you know this is the source?”

“That would've
sounded better if you hadn't had your lip curled, but it'll do. I know this is
the source because by tracking through the central system, I traced the virus
to its starting point. This unit was the first infected, and the virus was
programmed to self-clone and, I suspect, slither into central, spread to all
interfaced units, then erupt in a nearly simultaneous burst. It's very clever.”

“Great.”

Rinksy stepped
up beside her again. “Your kit, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” She
took the kit, opened it. She coated her hands with Seal-It first, then passed
the can to Roarke. “Don't touch anything yet.” She took out a wand, shined its
pencil-thin beam and washed cool blue light over the coffee mug. “Gotta good
thumbprint. Yeah, partial index finger. You got your palm unit on you?”

“Always.”

“Can you
access the casefile? I need to compare these latents.”

While he did
as she asked, Eve shined the light over the table surface. Too many prints, she
mused, most of them smeared.

“Lieutenant?”
Roarke held out a small printout of the casefile prints.

She grunted,
then held the printed copy against the latent on the mug. “That's our boy. Hold
on.” Using the wand she picked up the mug, balanced it with a sealed finger on
the base, then poured the coffee mixture into an evidence bag. “Why do people
screw up perfectly good coffee with all that froth and flavors?” She sealed the
bag, then tipped the cup into a second, sealed that. “Question.”

“Ask it.”

“How did he
know we were coming? He had to know. That's why he uploaded the virus. We were
here minutes after notification, but he tagged us, dumped the germ and danced. How?”

“I have a
theory, but I'd prefer exploring it a bit first.”

She shifted
her weight. “Exploring how?”

“I need to
open this unit.”

She debated.
Strict procedure meant she could, and likely should, roust either Feeney or
McNab and haul them over to check out the unit on site. Or she could call in
another EDD tech.

But Roarke was
here.

If he'd been a
cop, he'd have been commanding EDD by this time.

“Consider
yourself field drafted as an expert consultant, civilian.”

“I've always
liked the ring of that.” He slid a small case out of his inside pocket, then
wiggled his sealed fingers. “I'm touching things now.”

He used a
micro-drill and had the casing removed in seconds. Then he let out a little hmmm
and began to probe. “There are three system levels in this club,” he said
conversationally. “This is the highest level and costs from one to ten dollars
a minute depending on the number of functions utilized.”

Her stomach
sank. “Is this your club?”

“It is, yes.”
He continued to work, hooking his PPC to the unit with a hair-thin cable. “But
that's neither here nor there. Unless you consider that you'll have no bitching
and moaning from the owner about tonight's little adventure -- or the
impounding of this unit as evidence.” He glanced up once, just a sweep of her face
with those amused blue eyes. “Less paperwork for you.”

“You know how
those right-wing bureaucratic demigods are. They feed on paperwork.”

“You've a
bruise gathering on your jaw.”

“Yeah.” She
rubbed her thumb over the ache. “Shit.”

“Hurt?”

“I bit my tongue.
That hurts more. You?”

“Nothing
major. This system is corrupted, and very thoroughly. Clever boy,” he
reflected. “Clever, clever boy. You'll need to run a full diagnostic, but it
appears you have a top-level tech on your hands, and one who believes in being
prepared. It isn't a simple matter to rig a public unit to notify a user of a
search on his account. He had a portable scanner, highly sensitive, I'd say,
interfaced it. Very cautious, very smart.”

“Can you get
around it?”

“Eventually.
The units in this club are designed quite well to shut down and lock at any
attempt at contamination. There's an internal detector and filtering system as
backup. Despite that, he managed to upload a virus that wiped this unit, and
every other in here. And it did it in minutes, after detecting a shield
notification.”

She leaned
back. “You sound impressed.”

“Oh, I am.
Considerably impressed. Your man has a brilliant talent. A pity, really, that
he's as corrupt and worthless as this unit.”

“Yeah. Breaks
my heart.” She stood up. “I'm going to spring the staff, have the unit
impounded and sent to EDD. Once we're cleared out, I want a look at security.
Let's see what he looked like tonight.”

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

He looked, Eve
decided, smug. She caught it in the way his eyes drifted over the crowd --
dismissing, smirking even while he kept a pleasant, inoffensive smile on his
face.

He walked
through the crowd, kept himself removed from them. No contact, no casual
greetings. And moved directly to the cube that put his back to the wall, and
kept his view of the room unobstructed.

“He's been
here before,” Eve noted.

None of the
staff had been able to confirm that. Then again, the manager had been so
flustered -- not by the police intervention, not even by the near-riot, but,
she remembered, by the realization that Roarke was in the club -- that he'd had
a hard time sputtering out his own name.

The unit and
cube had been reserved under the name R. W. Emerson. An alias, she had no
doubt, and the name, she'd learned after a quick run, of a long-dead poet.

His hair was a
smooth, warm brown mane tonight, and he wore square-framed glasses of tinted
amber. She supposed his attire was casual trendy with the dark pegged pants,
the ankle boots, the long, hip-swishing shirt in the same amber hue as his
lenses. There was a gold cuff bracelet on his right wrist and a curve of
winking studs along the shell of his ear.

He ordered the
coffee first, made a call on his pocket 'link. Then he drank a little while he
continued to watch the room.

“He's making
sure the environment's stable,” Eve said. “And he's hunting. Tracking the
women, considering them. You can message to any other unit in the club, right?
Isn't that one of the deals why people go instead of just staying home and
scoping the 'net in peace?”

“Another way
of socializing,” Roarke confirmed. “Excitingly anonymous, even voyeuristic. You
message a unit across the room, can watch their reaction, decide if you want to
take it to the next step and make personal contact. Units are equipped with a
standard privacy shield for those who don't want to be disturbed. Or hit on.”

She watched
her suspect log on, and choose manual instead of voice mode.

“There.”
Roarke touched her arm, then ordered the screen to zoom in, to enlarge a sector.
“The scanner.”

She saw what
looked like a small, slim, silver business card case. He drew a thin,
retractable cable out of the corner, plugged it into the side port of the unit.

“Oh, he is
very, very good. I've never seen one that compact,” Roarke told her. “Odds are
he made it himself. I wonder -- “

“Think about
your research-and-development potential later,” she ordered. “Bang. He's made
us.”

His body went
rigid, his face slack. He didn't look so smug and superior in that instant. He
looked shocked, and he looked scared. The eyes behind the fashionable lenses
were jittery as they darted around the room.

He pulled the
scanner out, then curled over the keyboard with the earnest devotion and
intensity of the classic compu-geek.

“Coding in the
virus,” Roarke said quietly. “He's sweating, but he knows what he's doing.
Uploading it.”

He was
shaking. He rubbed the back of his hand repeatedly over his lips. But he sat
where he was, his gaze glued to the monitor. Then he was up, leaving his barely
touched coffee, and hurrying for the door recklessly enough to run into tables,
bump into people.

He was nearly
running by the time he made the door. Eve saw him swing his body to the right
before he disappeared and the door closed behind him.

“Out. Out and
gone in what, under two minutes. Bolted a good minute before the uniforms
responded and arrived on scene.”

“Ninety-eight
seconds by the clock,” Roarke concurred. “He's fast. He's very fast.”

“Yeah, he's
fast, but he's shook. He was heading uptown. And he was running scared -- for
home.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

It took him
nearly an hour to stop shaking. An hour, two whiskeys, and the calmer Lucias
added to the second drink.

“It shouldn't
have happened. It shouldn't have been possible.”

“Pull yourself
together, Kevin.” Lucias took out a cigarette he'd laced with just a whiff of
Zoner. He lighted it, crossed his ankles. “And think. How did it happen?”

“They managed
to dig under to the account name. The shielded account name.”

Irritably,
Lucias pulled in smoke. “You told me that would take them weeks.”

“I
underestimated them, obviously.” Annoyance shimmered over nerves. “It can't be
traced back to us in any case. But even having the account name, how could they
trace me to that location, and so quickly? The police don't have the
facilities, the manpower, the equipment to surveil every cyber-club in the
city, and every unit in them. Then there are the matters of the privacy blocks,
the standard one and the ones I implemented.”

Lucias drew in
smoke, then expelled it in a lazy stream. “What are the odds they just got
lucky?”

“Nil,” Kevin
said between his teeth. “They used both superior equipment and a superior
tech.” He shook his head. “Why in God's name would anybody with those skills
settle for a cop's salary? In the private sector, he or she could name any
price.”

“It takes all
kinds, doesn't it? Well, this is exciting.”

“Exciting? I
might have been caught. Arrested. Charged with murder.”

The Zoner, as
always, was doing the job. “But you weren't.” Willing to placate, Lucias leaned
over, patted Kevin's knee. “However smart and skilled they are, we're more so.
You'd anticipated this sort of possibility, and prepared for it. You infected
an entire club. Very sweet. You'll be headlined in the media again.” He sighed.
“More points for you.”

“They'll have
me on security cam.” Kevin inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly. In many ways, Lucias
was his drug of choice, and his approval smoothed over the worst of the nerves.
“I might not have altered my look if I hadn't been using a club so close by.”

“Fate.” Lucias
began to laugh, and drew an answering grin from his friend. “It's really just
fate, isn't it? And all on our side. Really, Kev, it just gets better and
better. You'll take care of the account? Generate another?”

“Yes. Yes,
that's no problem.” Kevin shrugged that off. There was nothing he couldn't do
with electronics. “They've made a great many details public, Lucias. The chat
rooms, the setup. We may want to stop for a time.”

“Just when
it's getting interesting? I don't think so. The higher the risk, the greater
the thrill. Now, at least, we know we've pitted ourselves against an adversary
or adversaries that are worthy of our efforts. It adds such a flavor. Savory.”

“I could keep
the account open,” Kevin mused. “Send out some decoys.”

“Ah!” Lucias
slapped a hand on the arm of his chair. “Now you're in the game. Just think of
it. Think of when you have your rendezvous tomorrow night. Why, you and the
lovely lady can discuss this recent horror over drinks. She shivers,
delicately, over the fate of her doomed sisters. Never knowing she's fated to
join them. God, it's delicious.”

“Yes.” The
whiskey and the drug cruised inside him, turned the air he breathed into soft
liquid. “It does add to the thrill.”

“One thing for
certain, we're not bored.”

Amused now,
Kevin reached over to take a hit from the laced cigarette. “And unlikely to be
for some time. I know just what I'll wear tomorrow. Just how I'll look. She's
so sexy. Moniqua. Even her name reeks of sex.” He hesitated, hating to
disappoint. “I don't know if I can go through to the end of it, Lucias. I don't
know if I can kill her.”

“You can. You
will. One doesn't drop back a level of achievement.” He smiled when he spoke.
“Think of it, Kevin. You'll know, the whole time you're touching her naked
body, while you bury yourself in her, that you'll be the last one to do so.
That your dick pumping inside her is the last thing she'll ever know.”

Kevin went
hard thinking of it. “I suppose there's something to be said for the fact
she'll die happy.”

Lucias's
laughter bounced cold around the room.

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

Since she was
always trying to lose weight, Peabody got off the subway six blocks down from
the stop nearest Eve's home. She was feeling pretty peppy about meeting at the
home office site again, where the AutoChef was a treasure trove of wonders.

Another reason,
she admitted, for the hike. Sort of penance before the sin. It was a solution
that appealed to her Free-Ager's sensibilities. Of course in the tenants of
Free-Agism there was no sin and penance, but imbalance and balance.

But that was
really just semantics.

She'd grown up
in a big, unwieldy family who'd believed in self-expression, had a reverence
for the earth and the arts and a responsibility to be true to oneself.

She had known,
it seemed she'd almost always known, that to be true to herself she needed to
be an urban cop who tried to maintain ... well, balance, she supposed.

She was sort
of missing her family right now though. The bursts of love and surprise. And
hell, the simplicity of it all. Maybe she needed to take a few days and go sit
in her mother's kitchen, eat sugar cookies, and soak up some uncomplicated
affection.

Because she
didn't know what in God's name was wrong with her. Why she felt so sad
and unsettled and dissatisfied. She had the one thing she'd wanted most in
life. She was a cop, a damn good cop, under the direct command of a woman she
considered the ultimate in examples.

She'd learned
so much in the past year. Not just about technique, not just about procedure,
but about what made the difference between that good cop and a brilliant one.

About what
separated the ones who wanted to close a case from the ones who took it a level
deeper, and cared about the victim. Who remembered them.

She knew she
was getting better at the job every day, and she could take pride in that. She
loved living in New York, seeing its face change and shift as you moved from
block to block.

The city was so
full, she thought. Of people, of energy, of action. While she could go back
and sit in that homey kitchen, she'd never be content living there again. She
needed New York.

She was happy
in her little apartment, where the space was all her own. She had steady
comrades, good friends, a worthy and satisfying career.

She was
dating, well, sort of dating, one of the most incredibly handsome, considerate,
sophisticated men she'd ever known. He took her to galleries, to the opera, to
amazing restaurants. Through Charles, she'd been exposed to not just another
side of the city, but of life.

And she lay in
bed at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering why she felt so lonely.

She needed to
pull out of it. Depression did not run in her family, and she wasn't
going to be the first to spiral down into it.

Maybe she
needed a hobby. Like glass painting or container gardening. Holographic
photography. Macrame.

Fuck it.

It was just
that thought in her head when McNab popped out of the subway glide and all but
collided with her.

“Hey.” He took
a jerky step back even as she did. Stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Hey.” Could
her timing have been worse? she wondered. She couldn't have walked a little
faster, a little slower? Left home five minutes earlier, two minutes later?

They frowned
at each other for a moment, then had to move or be mowed down by the commuters
flooding off the glide and onto the sidewalk.

“So.” He
pulled his hands out of his pockets to adjust the fit of the tiny, round
sunshades with aqua blue lenses. “Dallas called for the home office deal.”

“I got the
update.”

“Sounds like
she got some action last night,” he continued, struggling to keep it all mild
and easy. “Too bad that creep didn't drop into Cyber Perk the other night when
we were there. We might've made him.”

“Unlikely.”

“Try a little
optimism, She-Body.”

“Try a little
reality, jerk-face.”

“Wake up on
the wrong side of slick-boy's bed?”

She heard her
own teeth grind. “There is no wrong side of Charles's bed,” she said sweetly.
“It's a big, soft, round playpen.”

“Oh yeah?”
Half the circuits in his brains fried at the image of Peabody romping naked in
some plush, sexy bed. With someone else.

“That's just
the sort of quick repartee I've come to expect from you. You must be sharpening
your wits on all those bimbos you're bouncing on these days.”

“The last
bimbo had a doctorate from MIT, the body of a goddess, and the face of an
angel. We didn't spend much time on wit-sharpening.”

“Pig.”

“Bitch.” He
grabbed her arm as she swung toward Roarke's gate. “I'm getting fed up with the
way you slap at me every time I get within striking distance, Peabody. You're
the one who put the brakes on.”

“Not soon
enough.” She tugged, but his grip stayed firm. She always underestimated those
skinny arms of his. It was mortifying to realize the strength in them had her
stomach doing cartwheels. “And as usual you're wrong and you're stupid. You're
the one who ended things because you couldn't have everything your way.”

“Right. Excuse
me for objecting to the fact you'd roll out of my bed and roll into the
whore's.”

She rammed a
fist into his chest. “Don't call him that. You don't know anything about it,
and if you had one tenth of Charles's class, his charm, his consideration,
you'd crawl up to subhuman. But since you don't I should thank you for putting
the skids on what was a ridiculous, embarrassing, and revolting mistake on my
part by ever letting you lay a hand on me. So thanks!”

“You're
welcome.”

They were
panting, wild-eyed and nose to nose. Then they were moaning and mouth to mouth.
They jerked apart, still wild-eyed.

“That didn't
mean anything,” she managed between gasps.

“Right. It
didn't mean anything. So let's do it again.”

He yanked her
back, sank his teeth greedily into her bottom lip. It was, she thought,
dizzying, like being shot out of a cannon. Her ears were ringing, her breath
and balance gone. And all she wanted was to run her hands all over his long, bony
body.

She settled
for his butt, digging her fingers in as if she could twist off a nice little
chunk to keep in her pocket.

He spun her
around, struggling to get his hands under the stiff, starched jacket of her
uniform. Under it, he knew her body was a wonder of curves and soft, yielding
flesh. Desperate for it, he shoved her back, through the gate sensors and
rapped her smartly against the iron bars.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. Let me
-- God.” He buried his mouth against her neck and wondered if he could just
slurp her up like ice cream.

“I beg your
pardon.” The voice came from nowhere, from everywhere, and had them both
goggling at each other.

“Did you say
something?” she asked.

“No? Did you?”

“Officer.
Detective.”

Still in
mid-grope, they both slid their eyes to the right and stared at the security
panel on the stone pillar. Summerset, his face expressionless, stared back out
from the view screen.

“I believe the
lieutenant is expecting you,” he said, coolly polite. “If you take a step back
from the gate, you're less likely to fall through them when they're opened.”

Peabody felt
her own face flame like a scorched tomato. “Oh man. Oh shit.” She shoved McNab,
stepped clear, then began to tug her uniform back into place. “That was just
stupid.”

“Felt good
though.” Somehow his kneecaps had become detached so that the first steps he
took through the open gate were wobbly and disjointed. “What the hell,
Peabody.”

“Just because
we've got this ... chemical reaction, doesn't mean we have to act on it. It
just screws things up.”

He danced in
front of her, walking backward. His long, sleek ponytail bobbed from side to
side. His thin jacket billowed to his knees and was the color of field poppies.
Despite all her good intentions, her lips twitched into a smile.

“You're so
damn goofy.”

“Why don't we
get a pizza tonight? See where it goes.”

“We know where
it went,” she reminded him. “We don't have time to do this now, McNab. We don't
have time to think about it.”

“I think about
you all the time.”

That stopped
her, dead in her tracks. It was tough to walk when your heart had bounced to
your shoes. “You're messing me up.”

“That's the
plan. A pizza, She-Body? I know how you are for pizza.”

“I'm on a
diet.”

“What for?”

The fact that
he could ask, sincerely, had always charmed and baffled her. “Because my ass is
approaching the same mass as Pluto.”

He circled
around her as they hiked up the long curve of the drive. “Come on. You've got a
great ass. It's there. A guy doesn't have to spend half his time looking
for it.”

He gave it an
affectionate squeeze, earned a narrowed, warning look, and grinned. He knew
when he was making headway. “We'll just eat and talk. No sex.”

“Maybe. I'll
think about it.”

He remembered
what Roarke had advised him about romance. In a quick dash, he loped around the
lawn, snapped a blossom from an ornamental pear. He caught up with Peabody at
the steps, and slid the flower through the top buttonhole of her jacket.

“Jeez,” she
muttered, but she strode into the house without taking the flower out.

She was very
careful to avoid direct eye contact with Summerset. And very aware of the heat
creeping up her neck as he invited them to go straight up to Eve's office.

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

Eve stood in
the center of the room, rocking lightly on her heels as she watched the
security tape again. The man was smug, she thought. And aloof. He enjoyed
casting that amused glance over the crowd in the cyber-cafe, thinking everyone
in there was less than he. Knowing he had a secret.

But he also
dressed to draw attention. Admiration and envy. So those who saw him understood
he was more.

He thought
ahead. Was so cocksure nothing and no one could touch him. But when things had
gone wrong, there was fear and panic.

She watched
the sweat dew on his face as he stared at the monitor in his cube. And she
could see him, easily see him, heaving the lifeless body of Bryna Bankhead off
the balcony. Get rid of the problem, she mused. The inconvenience,
the threat. Then run away.

She couldn't
see him following through the very next night with another woman. With
deliberate intent and cold blood.

She turned as
Peabody and McNab came in. “Run this guy's image front, back, and sideways,”
she ordered. “Concentrate on the facial structure, the eyes -- shape, not color
-- and body type. Forget the hair, odds are it's not his.”

“You have a
bruise on your jaw, sir.”

“Yeah, and you
have a flower in your buttonhole. So we both look stupid. Dickhead came through
on the wigs and enhancements. I've got the brand names. You chase down outlets
on them, Peabody, get me a consumer list. Cross-reference it with the one I've
got on the wine. Roarke's getting me a list of the top shops for men in the
city.”

“Roarke has
got it for you.” He stepped into the office, held out a disc. “Good morning,
class.”

“Thanks.” She passed
it off to Peabody. “Our guy likes the good stuff. Designer shoes, tailored
wardrobe. What do you call it?”

“Bespoke,”
Roarke supplied. “While he may purchase directly from London or Milan, the
first suit was definitely British cut,” he added. “The second certainly
Italian, he'd be likely to patronize some of the high-end shops here in New
York.”

“Taking our
fashion advisor at his word,” Eve said dryly, “we run it through, see if
anything pops. Unless he's got his own greenhouse, he's buying those pink roses
from somewhere. Probability's high it's in his own neighborhood, and I'm
betting that neighborhood is either Upper West Side or Upper East Side, so we
look there first.”

She glanced
over, momentarily surprised when Roarke gave her a mug of fresh, hot coffee.
“I've got a consult with Mira here in an hour. Feeney's at Central, directing
the exam of the unit we impounded from Cyber Perks. I want answers, I want a
trail, and I want it today. Because he's going to move again tonight. He has
to.”

She turned
back to the screen where the killer's face sneered out at the crowd. “He's
already got his next target.”

She walked
over to a board where she'd pinned photographs of both victims, the computer
images of the killer as he'd looked before and after each murder.

“She'll be
young,” Eve said. “Early- to mid-twenties. She'll live alone. She'll be
attractive and intelligent with an affection for poetry. She'll be romantic,
and not currently in any serious relationship. She lives in the city. Works in
the city. He's already seen her, studied her on the street or at her job. She
may have spoken to him and not known he was the man who's been seducing her.
She's probably thinking about tonight, about this date she has with a man who's
exactly what she's waited for. In a few hours, she thinks, I'll meet him. And
maybe, just maybe...”

She turned
away from the board. “Let's keep her alive. I don't want to see another face on
this board.”

“A moment of
your time, Lieutenant?” Roarke gestured to his office, stepped out himself
before she could put him off.

“Look, I'm on
the clock here.”

“Then why
waste time.” He shut the door behind her. “I can get you those consumer lists,
have them cross-referenced and complete in a fraction of the time it would take
Peabody.”

“Haven't you
got work?”

“Considerable,
yes. It would still take me less time.” He skimmed a fingertip over the bruise
on her jaw, then lightly along the shallow dent in her chin. “I find I prefer
having my mind fully occupied just now. And,” he added. “I'd rather not see
another face on your murder board either. I intend to do it anyway, but I
thought you might feel less annoyed if I made the pretense of asking.”

She scowled at
him, folded her arms. “Pretense?”

“Yes,
darling.” He kissed the bruise. “And this way, as you know what I'm up to, it
frees you to have Peabody along with you in the field, wherever that might be.”
His in-house communication panel beeped. “Yes?”

“A Dr. Dimatto
is here to see Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Send her up,”
Eve ordered. “Do what you're going to do,” she told Roarke. “But for right now
I'm going with the pretense that I don't know about it.”

“Whatever
works for you. I'm just going to take a minute to set some things up. Then I'd
like to say hello to Louise.”

“Suit
yourself.” She opened the door, glanced back. “You generally do.”

“That's what
makes me such a contented man.”

She gave a
rude snort and crossed into her office to greet Louise.

She came in
fast, but Eve had rarely seen her move another way. She took one look at the
coffee in Eve's hand and smiled. “Yes, I'd love some, thanks.”

“Peabody,
coffee for Dr. Dimatto. Anything else we can get you?”

Louise stared
at the danish McNab was currently trying to swallow whole. “Is that an apple
danish?”

With his mouth
stuffed, he made some sound, a mixture of affirmation, pleasure, and guilt.

“Love one,
too, thanks again.”

Eve swept a
glance over Louise's snappy red suit. “You don't look dressed for seeing
patients, Doc.”

“I have a
meeting. Fundraiser.” Diamonds twinkled at her ears when she tilted her head.
“You tend to squeeze out more money when you look like you don't need it. Go
figure. In any case ... thank you, Peabody. Mind if I sit?” She did, crossing
her legs, balancing the plate with the danish expertly on her knee as she took
her first sip of coffee.

She heaved a
long sigh before she sipped again. “Where do you get this stuff? It has to be
illegal.”

“Roarke.”

“Naturally.”
She broke off a tidy corner of the danish.

“Have you got
a reason for dropping by, Louise, other than a little coffee break? We're a
little busy here.”

“I'm sure you
are.” She nodded toward the board. “I asked about Bryna Bankhead in my
building. She knew everyone on her floor, and several others. She was very well
liked. She'd lived there three years. She dated fairly regularly, but no one
serious.”

“I know all
that. Thinking of giving up medicine for police work?”

“She lived
there for three years,” Louise repeated, and the humor had died from her voice.
“I've lived there for two. She fell on the sidewalk at my feet. I'd never had a
conversation with her.”

“Feeling
guilty over that won't change what happened to her.”

“No.” Louise
broke off another bite. “But it made me think. And it made me more inclined to
work harder to get any information for you that might help your investigation.
There was a research project at J. Forrester. That's a private, fairly
exclusive clinic that specializes in sexual dysfunctions, relations, fertility
issues. Nearly twenty-five years ago, J. Forrester formed a partnership with
Allegany Pharmaceuticals to research, study, and develop various chemical
products that could alleviate dysfunction and enhance performance, sexually
speaking. Many top chemists and R and D people were involved or associated with
the project.”

“Testing with
elements found in the controlled substances known as Whore and Wild Rabbit.”

“Those,
others, combinations. They did, in fact, develop the drug trademarked as
Matigol, which has helped extend sexual performance ability in men well past
the century mark, and the fertility drug Compax, which allows women to safely
conceive and give birth into their fifties should they desire it.”

She nibbled on
the danish. “Both these drugs have a very high success rate, but are extremely
expensive and therefore largely inaccessible to your average consumer. But for
those who can afford it, they're a miracle.”

“Do you have
the names of the players?”

“I'm not
finished.” She turned her head, shot out a sunny smile as Roarke walked in. “Good
morning.”

“Louise.” He
went to her, lifted her hand to his lips. “You look lovely, as always.”

“Yeah, yeah,
blah blah. What?” Eve demanded. “What else?”

“Your wife is
rude and impatient.”

“That's why I
love her. By the way, Lieutenant, Charles Monroe is on his way upstairs.”

“What is this?
A convention?” But as she spoke she aimed one hard, warning look at McNab. His
eyes glittered back at her, and he managed to hold the look for a good five
seconds before he dropped his gaze, sulkily. “You, get me some data on J.
Forrester and Allegany Pharmaceuticals.”

She clenched
her jaw, which sent it throbbing as she caught the interest flicker over
Roarke's face. “Damn it.”

“I bought out
Allegany, eight, no, I believe it was ten months ago. What's the connection?”

“I don't know
precisely, because the doc here's being coy.”

“I'm never
coy,” Louise corrected, then her eyes blurred almost as they had when she'd
taken her first sip of coffee. “Oh, well,” she said as Charles walked in. “My,
my.”

“I guess you
want coffee, too,” Eve said.

He nodded. “I
wouldn't say no.”

“I'll get it.”
Flustered, flushing, floundering, Peabody escaped into the kitchen.

“Roarke.
McNab.” With the second greeting, Charles's practiced smile dimmed slightly.
Then it polished right up again when he aimed it at Louise. “I don't believe
we've met.”

“Louise.
Louise Dimatto.” She offered a hand.

“Don't tell me
you're a cop.”

“Doctor. You?”

If he heard
McNab's muttered opinion, Charles ignored it. “Professional companion.”

“How
interesting.”

“Can we save
the social hour for later? We'll have a damn party. Everybody's invited,” Eve
snapped. “I'll get to you,” she said to Charles. “Finish it out, Louise.”

“Where was I?
Oh yes. Despite the success in development, the project and the partnership were
dissolved some twenty years ago. Lack of funds, lack of interest, and a number
of unfortunate side effects from other experimental drugs during that period.
It was decided that further research using forms of those particular chemicals
was both cost-prohibitive and potentially financially risky due to threats of
legal action. The decision was largely influenced by Dr. Theodore McNamara,
who, in essence, headed the project and is credited for the discovery of both
Compax and Matigol. There were unsubstantiated rumors of abuse and pilfering
during the project. Talk of experimentation not only in the lab, but out of it.
Gossip is that some of the suits filed were internal, female staff who claimed
to have been given drugs without their knowledge or consent and were sexually
molested, perhaps impregnated, while under the influence. If it's true,” Louise
concluded, “nobody in the know is naming names.”

“Good work.
I'll follow it up. If you've got a meeting -- “

“I've got a
little time. I'll just finish my coffee, if it's all the same to you. In fact,
I'll just help myself to another half cup.”

She breezed
into the kitchen.

“Okay,
Charles. You're up.”

He nodded at
Eve, grinned intimately at Peabody when she brought him his coffee. “My client
believes I wanted this information for another client. I'd like to keep it that
way.”

“I protect my
sources, Charles.”

“And I believe
in protecting my clients,” he returned. “I need your word that no action will
be taken against her if what I tell you ends up exposing her.”

“She doesn't
interest me. And if all she's doing is making herself horny, I'll make sure she
doesn't interest Illegals. Fair enough?”

“Sex isn't
easy for everyone, Dallas.”

“If people
didn't want to get off,” McNab shot out, “you'd be out of work.”

Charles smirked
at McNab. “True enough. If people didn't want to steal, cheat, maim, and kill,
so would you be, Detective. Aren't we all lucky human nature keeps us in
business?”

Eve stepped
between the chair where Charles sat and the desk where McNab worked, effectively
blocking their view of each other. “Give me the dealer, Charles. Nobody wants
to bust your client.”

“Carlo. They
don't use last names. She met him in a chat room, one on sexual
experimentation.”

Eve eased onto
the corner of the desk. “Is that so?”

“About a year
ago. She said he's changed her life.”

“How do the
buys work?”

“Initially,
she'd e-mail him, place an order. She'd pay with an electronic transfer of
funds into his account, then pick up the delivery at a mail drop at Grand
Central.”

“No personal
contact?”

“None. Now
she's on what she calls a subscription service and receives a regular monthly
supply. The payment, with the subscription discount, is automatically
transferred from her account to his. Five thousand a month for a quarter
ounce.”

“I need to
talk to her.”

“Dallas -- “

“And here's
why. I need his account data, and anything else she can tell me. She does
regular business with him, so she'd have a feel. More than that, she needs to
be put on guard. She could be a target.”

“She's not.”
He rose as Eve came off the desk. “Those are your victims?” He gestured to the
board. “What are they, twenty, twenty-five? This woman is over fifty. She's
attractive, she takes care of herself, but she doesn't have that bloom. Media
reports said they were single, lived alone. She's married. Her association with
me is a perk. Like a day at the salon. She lives with her husband and her
teenage son. And being questioned by you on this will embarrass and humiliate
her, and her family.”

“It may also
damage her sexual ego,” Louise put in. She stood across the room, sipping her
second cup of coffee. “The use of the drug and a professional companion have
most likely shown some dysfunction in this area. Exposing her need for them to
an authority who could deny and punish her for the first, and smirk at her for
the second, isn't advisable from a medical or psychological standpoint.”

“Protecting
her from that exposure runs the risk of slapping another dead woman on that
board.”

“Let me talk
to her again,” Charles asked. “I'll get the information you need. Better, I'll
open an account with him, at my own expense. He's only got to do a standard
background to verify my license. An LC's a reasonable client for sexual
illegals.”

“Get me the
data by three o'clock,” Eve decided. “Don't do anything else. I don't want him
to have your name.”

“You don't
have to worry about me, Lieutenant Sugar.”

“Just the
data, Charles. Now go away.”

“I need to get
along myself. Thanks for the coffee.” Louise set the cup down, glanced at
Charles. “Want to share a cab?”

“Perfect.” He
trailed a fingertip over the flower in Peabody's buttonhole as he turned for
the door. “I'll see you later, Delia.”

“Keep it
zipped, McNab,” Eve warned. “Peabody, Roarke is generating some data. You'll
assist in his office.” Which should, she hoped, keep the peace for a while. She
glanced at her wrist unit, thought of Mira. “I've got a meeting.”

CHAPTER NINE

She set up in
the library because it was quiet and in another section of the house. Mostly,
unless it related to a case, she liked to remain as oblivious as possible to
emotional vibrations. But there'd been so many of them winging around in her
office, she'd been tempted to duck and cover.

Here, the air
was smooth and placid. She settled down at one of the desks, input the fresh
data into the file.

“Computer,
factoring new data, run probability scan on subject Carlo as alias for
suspect.”

Working ...
probability subject Carlo as alias for suspect is ninety-six-point-two percent

“Yeah, that's
what I think. Second run. Probability subject Carlo manufactures illegals he
subsequently sells.”

Working ...
insufficient data for scan. Request further input to complete.

“That's where
you're wrong.” She pushed away from the desk to pace on the faded roses on the
antique rug. “He makes it, he bottles it, he sells it, he uses it. Control.
It's all about control. Sixty thousand a year from one client for what, three
ounces of that shit? Troll the 'net, hook a couple dozen rich marks, and you're
rolling. But it's not about the money.”

She stalked to
one of the rows of tall, arched windows, flipped the drape, and stared out over
the vast blooming estate. Even for Roarke, who'd been desperately poor,
achingly hungry, it wasn't about the money so much as it was about the game of
compiling it, having it, using it to make more of it.

And wielding
the power of it.

But this was
about neither greed nor need.

“Twenty k an
ounce, and you slip a quarter of that into the first victim, after she's
alone with you, helpless and naked in her apartment. After you've
already poured more than two ounces of Whore into her. Computer, street value,
illegal Whore.”

Working ...
hormonibital-six, commonly known as Whore, street value sixty-five-thousand USD
per fluid ounce. Known street use of this substance is negligible. Derivative,
Exotica, is common. Street value Exotica, fifty USD per fluid ounce. Do you
require listing of other common derivatives?

“Negative.
Derivatives aren't good enough for this guy. No clones, no substitutes, no weak
sisters. Date cost him about a hundred and fifty thousand. You could buy ten of
the best LCs in New York for that and have a hell of a party. But it's not
about money, and it's not about sex. They're only factors in the game.”

“I wonder why
you think you need me,” Mira said from the doorway.

Eve turned.
“Thinking out loud.”

“So I heard.”

“I appreciate
you coming out here,” Eve began. “I know you're busy.”

“And so are
you. I always love coming into this room.” Mira glanced around at the walls of
books that dominated the two-level room. “Civilized luxury,” she commented.
“You've hurt your face.”

“Oh.” Eve
rubbed her knuckles along her jaw. “It's nothing.”

Mira's face
was, Eve always thought, perfect. Serene and lovely, framed by a smooth sweep
of sable hair. She wore one of her quiet and elegant suits that looked like it
had been formed out of cool, fresh limes. The long gold chain around her neck
was as thick as Eve's pinky and enhanced with a single cream-colored pearl.

She smelled of
apricots and her skin was baby smooth as she brushed her lips lightly over
Eve's jaw.

“Habit,” she
said, and her blue eyes smiled easily at the line that formed between Eve's.
“Kissing hurts to make them better. Shall we sit?”

“Yeah. Sure.”
She never quite knew how to handle Mira's maternal attitude toward her. Mothers
were a mystery with too many of the pieces missing to attempt to form a
picture. “You'll want tea.”

“I'd love
some.”

Because she
knew Mira's habits, she programmed for a cup of the fragrant herbal brew Mira
favored. And because she was in her own space, Eve programmed the second cup
for coffee.

“How are you,
Eve?”

“I'm okay.”

“Still not
getting enough sleep,” Mira commented when Eve brought her tea.

“I get by.”

“On caffeine
and nerves. How is Roarke?”

“He's -- “ She
started to pass it off. But this was Mira. “What happened with Mick Connelly's
still weighing on him some. He's dealing with it, but it's, I don't know....
It's knocked him off stride some.”

“Grief levels
us. We go on, we do what's necessary, but there's a shadow on the heart.
Knowing you're there for him lightens the shadow.”

“He's horned
in on the investigation, and I haven't given him as hard a time about it as I
probably would have otherwise.”

“You're a good
team, in a number of areas.” Mira sampled the tea, approved it. “I imagine he
has some concerns about you standing as primary in this type of investigation.”

“Sexual
homicides. I've done them before, I'll do them again. I know how to handle it.”

“I agree. And
from your reports, from the thinking aloud I overheard, you've already formed
your own profile.” Mira slipped a disc out of her bag. “And now you have mine.”

Eve turned the
disc in her hand. “One profile?”

Mira sat back,
watching Eve as she sipped her tea. “Two. There are two, whether individuals or
personalities I can't tell you with absolute certainty. While multiple
personality syndrome is rare, except in fiction, it does exist.”

“I don't think
this is MPS. I read up on it last night,” she explained when Mira looked
surprised. “The same basic method, the same basic motivation, the same staging.
But two different styles, two different target types. He used a condom or
spermicide, sealed his hands with the second victim, but left DNA and latents with
the first. If it was MPS there'd be more distinction. One personality to hunt,
another to kill. One to hunt and kill, the other to function normally. This is
two guys, two, working together and taking turns at bat.”

“I'm inclined
to agree, but I can't rule out MPS.” She crossed her legs, settling in
comfortably to the talk of murder and madness. “The first murder appears to be
accidental, or consciously unplanned. There is the possibility that the thrill
and fear of the first triggered the more deliberate and more violent tone of
the second. 'Turns at bat' is an accurate analogy. He, or they, are game
players. There's a need here to dominate women, to debase them, but to do so
with what is perceived as style and charm. Romance and seduction. The sexual act
is wholly selfish, but would be rationalized as mutually satisfying as with the
drug the victims would be eager and aggressive.”

“More punch
because as it happens she's looking at him as a sexual creature, a desire.
Because, at the core of it, he's the focus.”

“Precisely,”
Mira agreed. “It's not rape in the traditional sense, which uses force,
violence, or intimidation. He doesn't look for fear, but for surrender. He's
smart, patient. He spends time getting to know them -- their fantasies, their
hopes, their weaknesses. Then plays on them and fashions himself into those
fantasies. Pink roses. Not red for passion, not white for purity. Pink for
romance.”

“We're dealing
with two very specific, very technical skills. Computer technology and
chemistry. I have new data and have run a probability on it. It's very likely
that a third alias is in use, for the purpose of selling sexual illegals.
High-end illegals. One of these guys knows his drugs. How to get them, more, in
my opinion, how to create them. Maybe he risks selling them because it's how he
makes his living. But I think it's more. I think he feeds on risk.”

“Agreed.” Mira
inclined her head. “He likes to take chances. Calculated ones.”

“The computer
technology is ace. When Roarke's impressed, you can be damn sure the skill's
earned it. Is MPS going to give one guy two highly developed skills in
different areas?”

“Again, not
impossible.” Noting the impatience that crossed Eve's face, Mira gestured. “You
want a yes or no, and I can't oblige you. I could give you case studies, Eve,
but they wouldn't hold up against your instincts. We'll say two, for the sake
of argument. Two individuals. One is fanciful, lives in his head a great deal.
His female ideal is sharp and sexy and sophisticated. He wants to enthrall her
as much as he wants to dominate and conquer her. He's a man who can and does
become caught up in the moment.”

“He sent roses
to Bankhead at work,” Eve pointed out. “Grace Lutz received no roses.”

“The second is
more calculating, more deliberate, and potentially more violent. He doesn't
delude himself to the same extent as the first that this is romance. He knows
it's rape. Accepts that. He wants youth and innocence because he wants to
possess then destroy them.”

“The second
would be the dominant partner.”

“Yes, almost
certainly. But they do have a symbiotic relationship. They need each other; not
only for the details and the skills, but for the reinforcement of ego. Male to
male approval, as when Arena Ball players slap each other on the ass, or catch
each other in headlocks after a score.”

“Teamwork. I
pass, you kick, and we make the goal.”

“Yes. This is
a great game to them.” Mira set her tea aside, toyed absently with the pearl on
the end of her chain. “And they need the competition. They are defective and
brilliant minds with young, spoiled boys' egos. Manipulators who didn't learn
to be that way overnight. They come from money and privilege, are used to
demanding or taking what they want as they want it, and with impunity. They deserve
it.”

“They'd have
played games before,” Eve put in. “Nothing to this level. They've worked up to
this.”

“Oh yes. One
mind or two, they've known each other a very long time and shared a great deal.
There's a lack of maturity that leads me to believe they may very well be in
the same age bracket as their victims. Early twenties. Mid-twenties at best.
They don't simply enjoy the finer things. They must have them.”

“Outward
appearances,” Eve added. “The snazzy clothes, the status of the wine labels,
the exclusive venues for the dates.”

“Mmm. Status
and exclusivity are vital. And what's more, I think, what they're accustomed
to. To deny themselves or be denied is intolerable. Under the sheen of romance
is a fear and a hatred for women. Look for a mother figure who was either
dominant and abusive or weak and abused. Neglectful or overly protective. A
man, particularly in his youth, most usually forms opinions and images of women
based on his opinion and image of the woman who raised him.”

She thought of
Roarke and of herself. Motherless child. “What if he doesn't know her?”

“Then he forms
them another way. But a man who seeks to exploit and hurt and abuse women will
certainly have some female figure in his life who these represent to him.”

“If I stop
one, do I stop both?”

“If you stop
one, the other will self-destruct. But he may very well kill on his way down.”

She did what
she did when there was too much data, too many threads, too many angles to all
mix and match and tangle.

She went back
to the victim.

When she used
her master to uncode the police seal and unlock Bryna Bankhead's apartment, she
blanked her mind of facts, and opened it to impressions.

The air was
stuffy. There was no scent of candlewax or roses now, but the faint, dusty odor
left behind by the sweepers.

No music. No
softly glowing light.

She ordered
the lights on full, checked that the privacy screen was in place, then wandered
the room while an airbus rattled across the graying sky beyond the glass.

Strong colors,
contemporary art, and still essentially female. The attractive nest of a single
woman of very defined style and taste who enjoyed her life and her work.

A woman young
enough that she had yet to form any serious or permanent sexual relationships.
And confident enough to experiment. Adventurous enough to form a fanciful
attachment with a faceless man over the 'net.

She'd lived
alone, both tidily and fashionably, but was friendly with her neighbors.

Very
eclectic music library, Eve mused as
she flipped through the discs filed orderly in the entertainment unit. She came
across Mavis: Live and Kicking, and despite the grim task felt the grin
stretch over her face.

Her friend,
Mavis Freestone, nearly always made her grin.

But it had
been classical that night, Eve remembered. His choice or hers? His, she
decided. It had all been his choice.

His
fingerprints on the wine bottle. He'd brought it with him, opened it, poured.
His fingerprints along with hers on one wineglass, only his on the second.

Handed her the
wine. Perfect gentleman.

She walked
into the bedroom. The sweepers had bagged the rose petals. The bed had been
stripped down to bare mattress. Ignoring it, Eve opened the balcony doors,
stepped out.

The wind
lifted the choppy ends of her hair, streamed it back away from her face. It was
starting to rain, soft, thin drops that fell soundlessly.

Her stomach
pitched but she made herself step to the rail, made herself look down. A
long drop, she thought. Long last step.

What had made
him think of the balcony? There was no indication he'd been to the apartment
before.

She replayed
the security disc in her head and watched Bryna and her killer approach the
front door of the building from the street. No, he hadn't looked up at the
building, New Yorkers never did anyway. They'd been completely absorbed in each
other.

Why had he
thought of the balcony?

Why hadn't he
just run in panic as he had in the cybercafe? Because part of his brain had
stayed cool enough to click into survival mode both times. Had he thought the
chemicals wouldn't show on a tox screen? Had he thought that far ahead?

Or just the
first desperate step? He lives in the moment, Mira had said. And the moment had
been shocking.

She's dead,
and I'm in such trouble. What should I do ?

Self-termination
ploy. Toss her away. Out of sight, out of mind. But why not clean up evidence
and leave it as a potential self-overdose and buy more time to escape?

To cause
confusion, she decided, as he had
in the cafe. He could have uploaded a virus in the single unit, but
programmed it to spread. And was knowledgeable enough about those who
frequented such places to be sure a riot would result.

A woman splats
on the sidewalk, witnesses are shocked, stunned, afraid. They might run to the
body or away from it, but they don't rush into the building looking for a
killer -- and the killer gains time to rush out and away.

But how did he
think of the balcony?

As the rain
thickened and began to plop, as her stomach churned at the height, she scanned
the street, the neighboring buildings.

“Son of a
bitch,” she cursed softly as she read the sign:

COFFEE AND
A BYTE.

It was hardly
more than a hole in the wall. Ten tables fitted with low-end units. Counter
service for six. But the coffee smelled fresh and the floors were clean.

The counter
was manned by a droid of the fresh-faced, geek variety. His hair was styled to
fall in a pointed brown flap across his forehead.

Two of the
tables were occupied by the same type in human form, and the waitress was young
and too perky not to be another automation.

“Hi! Welcome
to Coffee and a Byte. Would you like a table?”

She had poofy
blonde hair and lips the color of bubblegum. Her breasts were like two ripe
melons that peeked rosily out of the bodice of her snug white top.

Eve imagined the
geeks had nightly wet dreams with her name on them.

“I need to ask
you some questions. Both of you.”

The waitress,
Bitsy according to her name tag, replied, “Everything's on the menu, including
specials, but either Tad or I will be really happy to explain anything.”

Bitsy and Tad.
Eve shook her head. Jesus, who thought of this shit?

“Sit down,
Bitsy.”

“I'm sorry,
but I'm not supposed to sit. Would you like to hear about today's coffee
beverage?”

“No.” Eve
pulled out her badge. “This is a police investigation, and I have to ask you
some questions.”

“We're
programmed to cooperate fully with the police and security, the fire, the
health, and the emergency medical departments.” This was from Tad, who whisked
his flap of hair back with his fingers.

“That's good.”
She sensed movement and shifted to point at the thin-shouldered man who was
trying to slide invisibly from behind his table. “There's no trouble here,” she
told him. “Just questions. Why don't you sit back down, relax? You might be
able to answer some of them.”

“I didn't do
anything.”

“Good. Keep
not doing anything,” she advised.

She turned
back to the droids, but kept her body angled so the tables knew she had them in
her scope. “You know what happened across the street? The woman who died?”

“Oh yeah.” Tad
brightened, a student with the answer for the teacher. “She got tossed out the
window.”

“There you
go.” Eve took the photo of Bryna Bankhead, laid it on the counter. “Did she
ever come in here?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Don't call me
ma'am.”

He blinked
rapidly at that, trying to process. “I'm supposed to call female customers
ma'am.”

“I'm a cop,
not a customer.” Except... She sniffed the air. “Is that real coffee?” '

“Oh yes ...”
His face underwent several expressions, ended up baffled.

“Lieutenant,”
Eve said helpfully.

“Oh yes,
Lieutenant. We serve only genuine soy products, with or without caffeine
additives.”

“Never mind.”
She held up the photo so both men at the tables could see it. “Either of you
ever see this woman?”

The one who'd
tried to slither out the door shifted in his seat. “I guess I did. I didn't do
anything.”

“We got that
part. Where'd you see her?”

“Around. I
live a couple blocks down. That's why I come here. It's close and it's not all
crowded and noisy and full of freaks and slicks.”

“Slicks?”

“You know, the
ones who cruise cyber-houses to pick up dates. I do serious work here.”

“You ever talk
to her?”

“Nah. Women
like that don't talk to guys like me. I just saw her sometimes is all. Around
the neighborhood. She was really pretty, so I looked at her. I didn't do
anything.”

“What's your
name?”

“Milo. Milo
Horndecker.”

Doomed, she thought, from birth to geekdom. “Milo, you
keep telling me you didn't do anything, I'm going to start thinking you did.”
She pulled out the three stills of the three faces the killer had used. “Do you
know any of these men?” She laid them on the counter first for Tad and Bitsy.
And got simultaneous head shakes out of them.

“But they're
really pretty, too,” Bitsy added.

The negative
responses from the customers had Eve re-evaluating. “Okay. You have anyone in
here the past few weeks. Somebody who just started coming in recently, hasn't
been in since the murder? He'd want to sit near the front window. He'd come
around in the mornings, but not after ten. Or in the evenings, but not before
six.”

She had to
shuffle through the files in her head to come up with Bryna's regular work
schedule. “If he came in otherwise, it would be on Tuesdays. He'd order fancy
coffee. Slim latte grande with chestnut flavoring.”

“He came in
two Tuesdays in a row.” Bitsy bounced on the toes of her pink slippers. “He sat
in the front and he always had two lattes while he worked. And then he left.”

“Which table?”

“He always
used station one. Always.” She pursed her bubblegum lips. “It has a nice view
of the street.”

And Bryna
Bankhead's building, Eve thought.

She pulled out
her communicator and tagged Feeney. “I'm at a cyber-club across from Bankhead's
building. I'm looking at a unit he used. I need an impound warrant and an image
tech.”

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

Sitting at
station one, Eve drank the genuine soy product with caffeine additives. Beggars
couldn't be choosers.

She had only
to angle her head to see the twelfth floor of the apartment building across the
street. Bryna's apartment windows. The little terraces.

“He likes to
be thorough,” she said to Feeney. “He's a data addict and needs his input fix.
She told him in her e-mails what she usually did on her days off. How she liked
to open the windows first thing to see what sort of day it was.”

I love to
take that first breath of New York in the morning, she'd written. I know what people say about city
air, but I think it's so full, so exciting and romantic. All the scents and
flavors and colors. I have them all, and on my day off, I bask in them.

“He probably
watched her step out on the terrace. Maybe she'd have a cup of coffee out
there, standing by the rail. Being a creature of order, she'd tidy up the
apartment, get dressed, probably go out shopping awhile. Meet a friend. He
would have tailed her, just to make sure what she told him in e-mail clicked
with her habits. Want to make sure she lived alone, that there was no boyfriend
or whatever to cramp his style. More, he wanted to see how she behaved, how she
looked when she was unaware of him. She had to be good enough to fuck
after all.”

She looked
back at Feeney, who with his magic fingers and droopy eyes was giving the unit
its first check. “He's a creature of habit, too,” she said. “And the habits are
a trail. Can you find him on this?”

“He used it,
we can find out when and how. Gonna take time to filter through all the data
and find his. But what he put in, we can get out.”

With a nod,
she pushed away from the table and walked back to where the image tech worked
with the droids. The one thing about droids, she thought, was no matter how
annoying they might be, their eyes were a reliable camera.

Already she
could see the face and features coming to life on the tech's comp-canvas.

Soft face,
bland features. A hairline starting to recede from a wide dome of brow and left
to shag messily over the ears. The kind of face that passed through a crowd
unnoticed, that blended to the point where it was a faint smear on the memory.

Except for the
eyes. They were sharp and cold.

Whatever he
did to his face, Eve knew when she looked into those eyes, she would know him.

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

There was no
cyber-joint within view of Grace Lutz's building. No coffee shop or little
diner. There was a small, walk-in deli with one long narrow aisle, but Eve's
morning run of luck ran out there.

She'd sent for
Peabody, and her aide walked in just as she was buying a candy bar.

“That's a very
childish lunch,” Peabody said, craving it. “Is that veggie hash fresh?”

“What have you
got for me?”

“A big, gaping
pit where my stomach used to be,” Peabody told her, and ordered a take-out
serving of the hash. “I'm trying this new diet where you eat only the white of a
hard-boiled egg for breakfast. Then -- “

“Peabody.”
Cruelly, Eve unwrapped the candy, took a slow, deliberate bite. “Have you
somehow mistaken me for someone who has an interest in dietary matters?”

“That's really
mean. You're got a mean temperament because you're spending your caloric intake
on processed sugar and ... is that caramel?”

“Bet your
ass.” Eve licked a glossy string of it off her index finger while Peabody
enviously followed the move. “Outside. I need to walk.”

“Oh well, if
we're going to exercise give me one of what she's got,” Peabody demanded, and
dug for more money.

On the street,
she scooped up forksful of hash slowly to make it last and matched her stride
to Eve's.

“If you can
manage to swallow, Peabody, I'd like your report.”

“It's pretty
good. I think they used dill. We listed sixteen possibles,” she said quickly.
“Roarke, well, I don't have to tell you, but he's one mag tech. So fast and
smooth. And when he does manual searches ... Have you ever noticed his hands?”
She ate more hash at Eve's steely stare. “Yeah, guess you have. Anyway, we've
had sixteen names that jibed with the purchases, and we factored them down to
ten, deleting two guys who got married in the last two weeks. May and June,
still big months for weddings. Another who got run over by a maxibus a couple
days ago. Did you read about that? This guy, he's walking along doing his stock
checks on his PPC, and steps right off the curb in front of the bus. Blap.”

“Peabody.”

“Okay, well.
We narrowed it down to ten most-likelies, going with the outlets McNab came up
with in-city for the enhancements. The wigs are taking longer because he's got
to target the manufacturer, and he says there's about two hundred who use that
high-grade human material -- then hit the brand, then the product name. The
style used in the first murder is a pretty popular hair alternative, and goes
by several names, depending on the brand and material used.”

She flipped
her empty take-out carton into a recycler, and began to peel the wrapper off
her candy bar with the slow precision and intense concentration of a woman
stripping her lover.

“He wants to
have pizza tonight.”

“What? Roarke
wants pizza?”

“No, McNab.
McNab wants to have pizza with me tonight. He says he wants to talk and stuff,
but this morning we broke a couple of public moral codes outside your gates.”

“Shit. Shit.”
Eve pressed her fingers under her eye where a muscle began to tic wildly.
“There it goes again. Why do you tell me this stuff? It makes me spasm.”

“If we have
pizza, we're going to have sex. What does that mean?”

“It's more
than a spasm. I think it's an embolism. One of those brain bombs, and you have
your finger twitching on the button.”

“I don't want
to get messed up again. But I feel messed up anyway.”

Eve sighed.
“What do I know about this kind of stuff, Peabody? It's taken me more than a
year to find my rhythm with Roarke, and I still screw it up half the time. Cops
are bad bets.”

She turned,
jamming her hands in her pockets. The street was dirty, the traffic loud, and
the smoke that belched from the glide-cart they passed stank of fried
rehydrated onions. She could see an illegals deal in the making a half block
down and across the street.

“Trying to
have a life off the job is work. Two of you trying to have a life off it, I
don't know. Damn it.” Her heart might have been going soft for her aide, but
her eyes were still hard and clear. “That's going bad. Call for the beat cops,
then back me up.”

She pulled out
her badge, pulled out her weapon, and was already zagging across the street
when one of the men on the opposite sidewalk drew a blade.

There was a
swipe, a dodge, then the second man flashed out a knife of his own.

They jabbed,
circling each other. Bystanders scattered.

“Police! Drop
your weapons.”

They ignored
her, and she could see one was jonesing, the other high. That made both of them
dangerous.

“Lose the
stickers, or I drop you both.”

As one, they
turned on her. The man desperate for his fix lunged wildly. She heard one of
the pedestrians screaming. As the knife arched up, she took her man down with a
stun across the knees.

He fell toward
her. She pivoted, blocked, then brought the heel of her boot down hard on his
knife hand.

While he
wailed, flopped, she saw the second man had moved fast. He had the side of his
blade lodged at the throat of the screaming pedestrian. And he had Zeus in his
eyes, that elixir that made gods of men.

“Drop it. Let
her go and drop it.”

“Fuck you.
Fuck her. This is my goddamn corner!”

“You cut her,
you'll die on this goddamn corner.” The man on the ground was weeping now. She
could smell the piss leaking onto the sidewalk where his bladder had let go.

“You put your
piece down or I cut her from ear to ear.” He leaned in, running his tongue over
the terrified woman's cheek. “And drink the blood.”

“Okay. Looks
like you've got me.” She lowered her weapon, watching his eyes follow it down.
Then watching them jitter as Peabody stepped in from behind and laid her
stunner against the back of his neck.

Eve sprang
forward, grabbing his knife hand, twisting it. The civilian slid to the ground
like an empty sack. “Stun him again!” Eve shouted as the drug-induced strength
had the knife jamming toward her throat. She felt the prick, that hot sting of
metal against flesh.

And both of
them scented her blood.

His body
jerked, then lifted when Eve plowed her knee into his groin. She shifted her
weight, sliced her heel into his instep, then curled to use the momentum to
flip him over her back.

He landed like
a felled tree, flat out, and with a solid crack of skull on concrete.

Eve scooped up
the knife, and wheezing, stayed bent over.

“Dallas? You
okay? Did he cut you?”

“Yes, damn it.
Get that one.” She pointed at the first man, still weeping, trying to crawl away.

She heaved the
second man over, clapped on restraints. The hostage was on the ground as well,
and still screaming.

Eve wiped the
blood off her throat with the back of her hand and glanced over. “Somebody shut
her up.”

CHAPTER TEN

She had a
long, shallow cut from just under her right ear to just above the jugular. A
little more pressure, the MT Peabody had summoned behind her back had
cheerfully noted, a little more depth, and she'd have pumped herself dry quick,
fast, and in a hurry.

As it was, it
wasn't so bad. Though she had blood on her shirt.

“They've got
stuff that'll take the blood right out,” Peabody assured her as they drove
uptown. “My mother always used salt and cold water though. Does the job.
Mostly.”

“So does
chucking it in the rag pile.” Though she imagined Summerset would pluck it out
again, work some sort of household voodoo, and it would end up back in her
closet. Good as new.

“See if you
can put a hook in McNamara. I'd like to work him into my day, see what he has
to say about the partnership, scandal, and sex drugs.”

While Peabody
made the call, Eve checked in for messages, grumbling when there was nothing
new from Feeney or McNab.

“Dr.
McNamara's off planet, sir. Isn't expected back for a couple days. I've left a
request that he contact you with his admin, and on his voice mail.”

“Okay, we'll
shuffle him down in the pile for now. Give me the run on this first guy.
Lawrence Q. Hardley.”

“Thirty-two.
Single, white male. Family hit it big in the late twentieth in the Silicon
Valley explosion. No marriage or cohabitation on record. No criminal or
military record.”

“And no prints
on file.”

“None. NYC
resident since forty-nine. Assists in running family business, NY branch, and
holds title of exec vp in charge of marketing. Reported income -- salary,
investments, dividends, expense quota, approximately five million two
annually.”

Peabody
studied the image alongside the data. “Looks pretty good, too. Maybe he'll fall
in love with me and beg me to marry him, thereby providing me with the style of
living to which I would be willing to become accustomed.”

It didn't work
out that way. Hardley showed no particular interest in Peabody, but he did
toward his pretty male admin. Things had looked hopeful when he'd become
flustered and annoyed at the questioning, had refused to answer without his
attorney present.

It took twenty
minutes to arrange for the consult, and another twenty to wade through standard
questions with the addition of the attorney through holo-projection.

An hour
wasted, Eve thought as she slid back
into her car, ticking Hardley off the list.

“Why didn't he
just tell us he was gay?” Peabody wondered. “And had an alibi for both nights
in question?”

“Some people
are still uncomfortable with alternative sexuality, even when it's theirs. Run
number two.”

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

They
eliminated three out of the ten before Eve cut Peabody loose for the day.
Because she knew her job -- she didn't have to like it -- she swung to the curb
in front of Peabody's building and asked the question.

“So, are you
having pizza or what?”

“I don't
know.” Peabody's shoulders rose and fell. “I think probably not. It'll just get
all weird and screwed-up again. He's really an asshole.” But she said it
wistfully. “He really got hyped and looney about Charles.”

Eve shifted in
her seat, wishing she could stem the thin trickle of sympathy for McNab. “I
guess it could be rough on a guy to figure he was competing with someone like
Charles.”

“We never said
we were exclusive. And he can't go around trying to direct my life. He can't
just start telling me who I can see, who I can be friends with.” Heating up,
Peabody turned the glare on Eve. “And if I had been having sex with Charles,
which I wasn't, it wouldn't be any of his damn business.”

Whoops, Eve thought. Forget your job for one little minute
and take a blast right in the forehead. “Right. Absolutely right. Once an
asshole, always an asshole. Good to remember that.”

“So screw
him.” Peabody huffed out a breath and felt righteous. “He didn't even bother to
tag me during the day to see if I was up for it anyway. So screw him.”

“Sideways.
We'll interview the last names on the list tomorrow.”

“What?”
Peabody brought herself back. “Right. Yes, sir. Tomorrow.”

Thinking she'd
done a reasonably decent job of it, Eve shoved the car into crosstown traffic.
With luck, she could be home in thirty minutes.

While she
fought her way across and uptown, Roarke sipped a beer, and did his job.

“I think the
pizza's a good approach,” McNab said. “She's got a weakness for it. And it keeps
it casual-like. Friendly.”

“I'd pick up a
bottle of red. Nothing fancy.”

“That's good.”
McNab's face brightened. “But no flowers or anything.”

“Not this
time. If you want to put things back as they were, you need to take her off
guard. Keep her guessing.”

“Yeah.”
Roarke, in McNab's estimation, was the guru of romance. Anybody who could make
Dallas soft was a veritable genius in affairs of the heart.

“But this deal
with Charles,” he began.

“Forget it.”

“Forget it?
But -- “ McNab stuttered in shock.

“Set it aside,
Ian. At least for now. She's fond of him, and whatever their relationship might
be, it's important to her. Every time you take a jab at him, you push her
away.”

They were
sitting, sharing beer, in some sort of den area McNab hadn't even known existed.
There was a pool table, an old-fashioned bar, view screens on opposing walls,
and deep leather sofas and chairs the color of good red wine.

The art on the
remaining walls were nudes. But they were classy nudes -- long, streamlined
female bodies that looked somehow foreign and refined.

It was, McNab
thought, a real guy room. Away from the work stations, away from the 'links,
where the only women were stylized art that didn't drive you crazy. Here there
were acres of wood, the smell of leather and tobacco.

Back to class,
McNab thought.

Charles had
class.

If that was
what Peabody was after, he was sunk before he floated.

“We had some
good times, you know? Not just good naked times, I mean. I was sort of getting
into that stuff you suggested before. You know, taking her out places, coming
up with flowers and shit some times. But when we busted up... It was bad.” He
gulped beer. “Really bad. I figured the hell with her. But we work together a
lot so you've got to have some level, right? Maybe I should just leave it like
that, before it gets messed up again.”

“That's an
option.” Roarke took out a cigarette, lighted it, blew out smoke thoughtfully.
“From what I've seen, you're a good detective, Ian. And an interesting man of
interesting tastes. If you didn't have a good brain neither Feeney nor Eve
would be working with you. However, despite being a good detective with a good
brain, and an interesting man of interesting tastes, you're leaving one vital
factor out of this current equation.”

“What?”

Roarke leaned
forward, gently patted McNab's knee. “You're in love with her.”

His jaw
dropped. The beer in the pilsner slid dangerously toward the edge as it tipped.
Roarke righted it.

“I am?”

“I'm afraid
so.”

McNab stared
at Roarke with the expression of a man who'd just been told he had a fatal
disease. “Well, hell.”

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

Fifty minutes,
two stops, and a long subway ride later, McNab knocked on Peabody's door.
Dressed in her rattiest sweatpants, an NYPSD T-shirt, and a new seaweed face
pack guaranteed to give the skin a clear, youthful glow, she opened to see him
holding a pizza box and a bottle of cheap Chianti.

“Thought you
might be hungry.”

She looked at
him -- the pretty face, the silly clothes -- and caught the siren's whiff of
spicy sauce. “I guess I am.”

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

It seemed to
be the night for dating. In the posh and fragrant Royal Bar of the Roarke
Palace, where a trio in evening dress played Bach, Charles lifted a shimmering
flute of champagne.

“To the
moment,” he said.

Louise clinked
her glass musically to his. “And to the next.”

“Dr. Dimatto.”
He skimmed a finger lightly over her hand as he drank. “Isn't it a happy
coincidence we both had the evening off?”

“Isn't it? And
an interesting one that we'd meet this morning at Dallas's. You said you'd
known her more than a year.”

“Yes. We
brushed together on another of her cases.”

“That must be
why she lets you get away with calling her Lieutenant Sugar.”

He laughed,
topped a small blini with caviar, and offered it. “She intrigued me right from
the start, I admit. I'm attracted to strong-willed, intelligent, and dedicated
women. What are you attracted to, Louise?”

“Men who know
who they are and don't pretend otherwise. I grew up with pretense, with
role-playing. And I shook it off as soon as I could manage. I stuck with
medicine, because it's my passion, but I practice it my way. My way didn't
please my family.”

“Tell me more
about your clinic.”

She shook her
head. “Not yet. You're too good at drawing out personal information without
giving any in return. I'll tell you I became a doctor because I have a need,
and a talent, to heal. Why did you become an LC?”

“I have a
need, and a talent, for giving pleasure. Not just sexually,” he added. “That's
often the simplest and most elemental part of the job. Spending time with
someone, discovering what it is they need or want, even if they don't know
themselves. Then providing it. If you do, the satisfaction's more than physical
for both parties.”

“And sometimes
it's just about fun.”

She made him
laugh. She'd been making him laugh, he realized, since he first met her.
“Sometimes. If you were a client -- “

“But I'm not.”
She didn't say it with a sting, but with a slow, very warm smile.

“If you were,
I might have suggested drinks just like this. Giving us time to relax, to
flirt, to get to know each other.”

The server
topped off their glasses, but neither of them noticed. “And then?” Louise
prompted.

“Then, we
might dance a little, so you'd grow used to the way I held you. And I to the
way you want to be held.”

“I'd love to
dance with you.” She set her glass down.

He rose, took
her hand. On the way to the dance floor they passed a shadowy booth where a
couple ignored their own bottle of champagne and kissed passionately.

He turned,
slid his arms around Louise. Fit her body to his with the easy skill of a man
who knew, perfectly, how a woman fit against a man. There was a delicacy about
her that stirred him. A directness that aroused and appealed.

In the cab
that morning, she had handed him a card and suggested he call her sometime --
when he wasn't working.

Very direct,
he thought again as he drew in the scent of her hair. Very clear. She was
attracted, interested. But not as a client.

He'd been
attracted, interested, and had suggested they have drinks that same evening.

“Louise?”

“Mmm.”

“I wasn't free
tonight. I broke an engagement to be here.”

She tipped
back her head. “So did I.” She laid her head on his shoulder again. “I like the
way you hold me.”

“I felt
something as soon as I saw you this morning.”

“I know.” She
relaxed, drifted on the music. On the moment. “I don't have time for a
relationship. They're so messy and take so much effort. I'm selfish, Charles,
about my work and often, very often, resent anything that gets in the way of
it.”

Her fingers
trailed into his hair. “But I felt something, too. I think I could make time to
find out what it's about.”

“I haven't had
much luck with relationships. My work usually gets in the way.” He turned his
face into her hair, breathed in the scent. “I'd like to take time to find out.”

“Tell me.” She
brushed her cheek against his. Smooth, she thought, with just enough friction
to make her skin shiver. “If I were a client, what would we do after we dance?”

“Depending on
what you wanted, we might go upstairs, to the suite I'd have reserved. I'd
undress you.” He skimmed his palm over the warm, bare skin of her back.
“Slowly. I'd tell you how beautiful you are as I took you to bed. How your
skin's like silk. I'd show you how much I want you as I made love to you.”

“Maybe next
time.” She drew away, just a little, so she could look at him. “And it sounds
nearly perfect. But if the next time comes, Charles, we'll take each other to
bed. And I'll make love with you.”

His fingers
tightened on hers. “It doesn't matter to you, what I do?”

“Why should
it?” She had to rise on her toes to touch her mouth to his, and left it at
merely a whisper. “Anymore than it should matter to you what I do. Excuse me a
minute? I want to freshen up.”

She walked to
the women's lounge and when she was sure she was out of sight, pressed a hand
to her jittery stomach. She'd never had a reaction like this to a man.

To want a man,
of course. To enjoy his company, to feel desire and interest and humor,
affection. But never all at once, never so much of all on such short
acquaintance.

She needed a
minute to settle down.

She stepped
inside the opulent lounge, moved directly to one of the deeply cushioned chairs
in front of its individual triple mirror.

She took out
her compact, then simply sat, staring at her own reflection. She'd said no more
than the truth. She didn't have time for a relationship. Particularly one that
was bound to be intense and complex and complicated. She had so much she wanted
to accomplish.

It was one
thing to socialize now and then. A date, a party. Particularly if she could use
the time to garner interest in the clinic, or the abuse shelter, or the
expansion of the free med-van units she was working on.

But a
relationship with Charles would be pure indulgence.

She'd had no
idea how much she'd want to indulge.

She opened and
closed her compact a few times, then began to powder her nose while lecturing
herself to be a grown-up. As she fussed with her hair, a long, slim brunette in
a clingy black gown came out of the stall area.

She was
humming, a quick, jumpy tune that suited her quick, jumpy moves when she
plopped into a chair and took out her lipstick.

“Ooh,” she
said and snagged one of the cut-glass bottles of scent. “Do Me.” She spritzed
it on lavishly, then to Louise's surprised amusement, tucked the bottle in her
evening bag. “That's just the idea.”

She scooped
back her long mane of curls, sent Louise a glittery smile. “Congratulate me.”
Moniqua rose, skimmed her hands over her breasts, down her hips. “I'm about to
get really lucky.”

“Congratulations,”
Louise told her, and laughed a little as Moniqua slithered out of the room.

She slithered
right up to the booth where the man she knew as Byron was already standing,
holding out a hand. “Ready?”

She took his
hand, leaned in, and rubbed her body provocatively over his. “Want to hear what
I'm ready for?”

Though she
whispered as they walked, they skirted close enough to where Charles sat that
he caught one very imaginative suggestion. Idly, he glanced after them and
wondered because of the man's subtle detachment, if he was an LC on the job.

Then he looked
over, saw Louise walking back. And couldn't think of anything but her.

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

Moniqua Cline
worked hard as a paralegal in one of the city's mid-level firms. She had
aspirations and ambitions, most of which were oriented toward career. But she
had more intimate ones as well, which involved fantasies about the perfect mate
who would share her love of neo-classic art, tropical get-aways, and poetry.

A man, in her
dreams, with a sophisticated edge, a toned body, a romantic mind, and some good
urban polish.

It seemed
she'd found him in Byron.

He was so
handsome, with his shoulder-sweeping bronze hair, his golden tan. Her nervous
pulse had jumped like dice in a cup when she'd seen him waiting in the booth
they'd agreed upon.

He'd already
had champagne poured and ready.

When he'd
spoken her name, the warmth, the faintest of British accents in his voice had
made her want to melt.

The first
glass of champagne had gone to her head. She'd been so hot, so itchy. When
she'd slid across the booth, she hadn't been able to stop herself from getting
her hands on him. Her mouth on him, she'd felt drunk and happy.

Now they were
alone in her apartment, and everything seemed soft and fluid. As if she were
looking through a thin veil of warm, rippling water.

There was
music playing, sweeping rainbow arches of music. And more champagne to dance in
her head and sweeten her tongue.

His mouth was
silky as it skimmed over hers. His hands so skilled that everywhere he touched
her throbbed and ached. Unbearably. He said lovely things to her, though it was
hard to understand them through the dizziness, the arousal that bloomed inside
her like roses.

Then he drew
away and made her moan in protest.

“I want to
prepare.” He took her hands, traced kisses over the backs. “Set the stage. You
want romance, Moniqua. I'm going to give it to you. Wait here for me.”

Her head spun
as she watched him get to his feet, pick up his bag. She couldn't quite ...
think.

“I want -- I
need to ...” She got shakily to her feet, gestured toward the bathroom.
“Freshen up. For you.”

“Of course.
Don't be long. I want to be with you. I want to take you places you've never
been.”

“I won't.” She
strained against him, lifting an eager mouth to his. “It's so perfect, Byron.”

“Yes.” He led
her to the bathroom door, nudged her gently inside. “It's perfect.”

He lighted the
candles. He turned down the bed, sprinkled rose petals on the sheets, plumped
the pillows.

He'd chosen
well, he decided, as he studied the bedroom. He approved the art, the colors,
the good fabric of the spread. She was a woman of taste. He touched the slim,
old volume of poetry on her bedside table. And intellect.

He might have
loved her. If love existed.

He set two
fresh flutes of champagne on the table. Added three drops of the drug to one.
He would dilute it this time, extend the experience. Lucias had told him she
could live for two hours, perhaps a bit more, with the combination of drugs in
this proportion in her bloodstream.

He could do a
great deal with her in two hours.

He turned when
she came to the bedroom door. He held out a hand.

“Beautiful,
Moniqua. My love. Let's discover each other.”

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

It was better
this time. Even better. Lucias was right. He was always right. The excitement
of knowing this experience would be her last, that he would be the last thing
she saw, felt, smelled, even tasted was almost unbearably erotic.

Oh, she
responded to him, tirelessly. Her heart stormed against his. And still she
pleaded with him for more.

She gave him
two hours. Two magnificent hours.

When he felt
her dying, he watched her almost tenderly. “Say my name,” he whispered.

“Byron.”

“No. Kevin. I
want to hear you say it. Kevin. I want to hear you scream it.”

He rammed
himself into her, plunging toward the end. And when she screamed his name, he
knew the most perfect pleasure of his life.

Because of it,
he drew the sheet gently over her body, laid his lips on her brow in a soft
kiss before he walked out of her apartment.

He couldn't
wait to get home and tell Lucias everything.

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

It was an hour
later when she moved. Her fingers scraped over the sheet, the eyes behind her
closed lids twitched. There was a numbness in her chest, and under it a kind of
terrifying, unspeakable pain. Her head burned like the sun.

Tears leaked
out, trickled down her cheek as she struggled to lift her arm. It felt dead,
and the effort had small, strangled sounds trembling on her lips.

Her fingers
brushed a glass on the table, knocked it to the floor where it shattered. And
the sound of it was dim, like glass breaking under a pillow.

Her fingers
crawled over the table, bumped the 'link. Sweat sheathed her as she forced
those fingers up, forced her confused mind to count. Slot by slot until she
reached the top key on memory.

She pushed it,
then her hand fell limp and her body lay drenched in exhaustion.

“What is your
emergency, Miss Cline?”

“Help me.” Her
lips tripped over the words as if they were some exotic foreign language.
“Please. Help me,” she managed to whisper before she fell back into
unconsciousness.

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

Eve woke when
the world started to sway. She opened gritty eyes and stared into Roarke's.

“Why are you
carrying me?”

“Because,
Lieutenant, you need to sleep. Not at your desk,” he added as he stepped into
the elevator in her home office. “In a bed.”

“I was just
resting my eyes.”

“Rest them in
bed.”

She should, on
principle, insist he set her back on her feet. But it was kind of nice to get
carted around, especially when she only had to turn her head to sniff his neck.
“What time is it?”

“Just after
one.” He carried her into the bedroom, climbed the short steps to the platform,
then sat, cradling her, on the side of the bed.

“Do you know
what I was thinking?”

She snuggled
in. “I've got a pretty good idea.”

He laughed,
ran a hand over her hair. “I can put my mind to that as well. But I was
thinking when I walked into your office and saw you with your head on your desk
and your face pale the way it gets when you're finally too exhausted to take
another step, that in a matter of weeks we'll have been married a full year. And
I'm still fascinated by you.”

“We're doing
okay, huh?”

“Yes, we're
doing just fine.” He tugged on the chain she wore around her neck, slid the
diamond pendant he'd once given her out from under her shirt where she most
often wore it. “You were angry with me when I gave you this. Yet you wear it
more often than anything I've ever given you but your wedding ring.”

“You told me
you loved me when you gave it to me. It pissed me off. And it scared me. I
guess maybe I wear it because it doesn't piss me off anymore. But it still
scares me sometimes.”

Though his
cheek rested on the top of her head, he traced a finger unerringly along the
mark the knife had left on her throat. “Love's a scary business.”

She turned
into him. “Why don't we terrify each other?”

Her lips were
a breath from his when the 'link beeped.

“Ah, damn it,
damn it.” She crawled over the bed to answer it.

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

Eve burst out
of the elevator into ICU, strode down the deathly quiet corridor. She hated
hospitals more than morgues. She slapped her badge on the counter at the
nurses' station. “I need to see whoever's in charge. I need to see Moniqua
Cline.”

“Dr. Michaels
is in with her now. If you'd just wait -- “

“In there?”
Eve jabbed a finger toward a set of thick glass doors. She was through them
before the nurse could do more than let out a piping sound of protest.

She knew who
she was looking for. She'd gotten a solid description from the med-tech who'd
helped transport the victim into the ER.

She passed a
glass-walled room, scanned the bed inside. The woman lying on it looked a
hundred and fifty and was tethered to so many machines she no longer looked
human.

Give me a
full blast, right in the heart, Eve
thought, and end my time clean.

In the next
room the man was much younger, and cocooned in a thin transparent tent.

She found
Moniqua one door down, with the doctor scanning the readout on a monitor while
his patient lay white as death and still as stone.

He glanced
over with annoyance, and a frown marred the face set off by a natty beard and
mustache the color of paprika.

“You're not
allowed in here.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas, NYPSD.” She offered her badge. “She's mine.”

“On the
contrary, Lieutenant. She's mine.”

“Is she going
to make it?”

“I can't say.
We're doing all that can be done.”

“Look, I don't
want the company line. Two other women haven't made it to the hospital. They
went straight to the morgue. MT told me she had a cardiac incident, a bp that
hit the cellar, and complications from the OD. I need to know if she's going to
come out of it enough to tell me who put her here.”

“And I can't
tell you. Her heart was damaged. We're unable to determine as yet if there was
brain damage as well. Her vitals are low and weak. She's in a coma. Her system's
been so compromised by the drugs it's a minor miracle she was aware enough to
call nine-eleven.”

“But she did,
and I say that makes her tough.” She looked down at Moniqua, willed her to
consciousness. “The drugs were administered without her knowledge. Are you
aware of that?”

“That hasn't
been confirmed, but I've heard the media reports on the two murders.”

“He doused her
with the two illegals, then he raped her. I need someone in here with a rape
kit.”

“I'll have one
of the physician's assistants take care of it.”

“I need a
police rep, too, to collect whatever evidence she's got in her.”

“I know the
drill,” Michaels said with a snap of impatience in his voice. “Get your rep,
get your evidence. That's not my concern. Keeping her alive is.”

“And mine is
pinning the son of a bitch who put her here. That doesn't make her less to me.
You've examined her? Personally?”

He opened his
mouth again, then whatever he read on Eve's face had him nodding. “I have.”

“Any trauma?
Bruises, bites, cuts?”

“No, none. Nor
any sign of forced sexual activity.”

“Was she
sodomized?”

“No.” He laid
a hand, almost protectively over Moniqua's. “What are we dealing with,
Lieutenant?”

“Don Juan,
with an attitude. Who'll know he didn't finish the job once this hits the
media. I'm putting a guard on her, twenty-four-seven and I don't want any
visitors. None. No one gets into this room except authorized staff and cops.”

“Her family --
“

“You clear
them through me first. Me personally,” she added. “I need to know if and when
there's any change in her condition. I need to know the instant she wakes up.
And I don't need any bullshit about her not being able to answer questions. He
meant her to die, and she didn't. Two others have. He's having too much fun to
stop now.”

“You wanted to
know her chances? Less than fifty percent.”

“Well, I'm
betting on her.” Eve leaned over the bed, spoke quietly, spoke firmly.
“Moniqua? You hear that? I'm betting on you. If you give up, he wins. So you're
not going to give up. Let's kick this bastard in the balls.”

She stepped
back, nodded at Michaels. “You contact me when she wakes up.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By the time
she left Central it was nearly four a.m., and exhaustion was wrapped around her
like a damp blanket that smothered the senses. Rather than trust her reflexes,
she programmed for auto. And hoped the jokers down in Maintenance hadn't played
any pranks with the mechanism.

Still, she was
too tired to care if she ended up in Hoboken. There were bound to be beds in
Hoboken.

The recycle
trucks were already out, limping along with their monotonous whoosh-bang-thump,
and their teams moving like shadows to dump contents of sidewalk
receptacles and bins and prepare the city for another day's garbage.

A utility crew
in their ghostly white reflector suits was tearing up a half block section
along Tenth. The nasty, tooth-drilling buzz of their hydro-jack competed with
the headache spiking into her left temple.

A couple of
the guys gave her the once-over from behind their safety goggles as she idled at
the light. One smooth customer grabbed at his crotch, grinning with what she
imagined passed for charm in his limited world while he jerked his hips.

The pantomime
had several of his cronies laughing uproariously.

She knew she
was past her personal threshold when she couldn't drum up the irritation to
step out of the car and bust their balls while she cited them for sexual
harassment.

Instead, she
let her head lay against the seat, closed her eyes as the sensors picked up the
light change and the car cruised through.

Mentally, she
took herself through Moniqua's apartment again. Champagne this time. Eve had
recognized the label as one of Roarke's and knew the bubbly could go for
upwards of a grand a bottle. A hell of an outlay, in her opinion, for some pop
and fizz.

He'd taken
glasses into the bedroom this time, but the rest of the setup was identical to
the others.

Creatures
of habit, she thought, drifting a
little. Taking turns.

Keeping score?
Most games were competitions, weren't they? The goal hadn't been reached with
Moniqua. Would they try to finish it? Or just sit back and hope she did the job
for them and coded out?

She shifted in
the seat, seeking comfort.

Call Michaels
in the morning, check status. Brief guards at change of shift. She'd put the
dependable Trueheart on the first shift. He'd be solid. Process data on
Allegany and J. Forrester. Follow through with Dr. Theodore McNamara. Nag
Feeney re cutting through blocks on the account number Charles had provided.
Continue to nag re data search on unit impounded from cyber-joint.

So far, she'd
gotten nowhere on the roses. Take another push at the flowers.

Take dose of
goddamn Awake, and swallow a stupid pain blocker before your head explodes.

She hated
drugs. They made her feel stupid or weak or overcharged.

Drugs would be
trickling into Moniqua's system now. Sliding inside her, working to bolster her
heart, clear brain channels, and God knew. If the tide turned the right way,
she'd wake up. And remember.

She'd be
scared, confused, disoriented. Her mind would feel detached from her body, at
least at first. There'd be blank spots, and the questions that had to be asked
would drop into some of them.

The mind, she
knew, protected itself from horror when it could.

To wake in the
hospital, with the machines, the pain, the strange faces. What could the mind
do but hide?

What's your
name ?

They'd asked
her that. It was the first thing they'd asked her. Doctors and cops, standing
over the gurney while she'd stared up at them.

What's your
name, little girl?

The phrase
sent her heart racing, made her try to curl up into herself. Little girl.
Terrible things happened to little girls.

They'd thought
at first she was mute, either physically or psychologically. But she could
speak. She just didn't know the answers.

The cop hadn't
looked mean. He'd come after the doctors and the others in flapping white coats
or pale green smocks.

She'd learned
later that it had been the police who'd brought her out of the alley where
she'd hidden. She didn't remember it, but she had been told.

Her first
memory was of the light over her head, burning into her eyes. And the dull,
detached pressure of her broken arm being set.

She was filthy
with sweat, dirt, and dried blood.

They spoke
gently to her, those strangers, as they poked and prodded. But like the cop,
the smiles didn't reach their eyes. Those were grim or aloof, filled with pity
or questions.

When they went
down, down to where she'd been torn, she fought like an animal. Teeth, nails,
with the howling screams of a wounded animal.

That's when
the nurse had cried. A tear sliding down her cheek as she helped hold her down
until the calmer in the pressure syringe could be administered.

What's your
name? the cop had asked her when
she'd drifted back. Where do you live? Who hurt you?

She didn't
know. She didn't want to know. She closed her eyes and tried to go away again.

Sometimes the
drugs let her slip under. But if they took her too deep the air was cold, cold,
cold and smeared dirty red. She was afraid, more afraid down there than of the
strangers with their quiet questions.

Sometimes,
when she was in that cold place, someone was with her. Candy breath and fingers
that skittered over her skin like the roaches that skittered across the floor
when the lights came on.

When those
fingers were on her, even the drug couldn't stop her screams.

They thought
she couldn't hear them, couldn't understand when they spoke in their hushed
murmurs.

Beaten,
raped. Long-term sexual and physical abuse. Suffering from malnutrition,
dehydration, severe physical and emotional trauma.

She's lucky
to have survived.

Bastard who
did this ought to be cut into little pieces.

One more
victim. World's full of them.

No identity
records. We're calling her Eve. Eve Dallas.

She woke with
a jolt when the car stopped, stared blankly at the dark stone of the house, the
glow of lights against the glass.

Her hands were
shaking.

Fatigue, she
told herself. Just fatigue. If she related to Moniqua Cline, it was only
natural. One more tool, she thought as she climbed out of the car, in the
investigation.

She knew who
she was now. She'd become Eve Dallas, and it was more than a name the system
had labeled her with. Who she'd been before, what had come before, couldn't be
changed.

If that
broken, frightened child still lived inside her, that was okay.

They'd both
survived.

She dragged
herself upstairs, stripping off her jacket, releasing her weapon harness.
Stumbling and peeling off her clothes as she headed for the bed. She tumbled
in, curling under warm, smooth sheets and willing the voices that still echoed
in her head to quiet.

In the dark,
Roarke's arm came around her, drew her back against him. She shuddered once.
She knew who she was.

She felt his
heart, the steady beat of it, against her back. His arm, the comforting weight
of it, over her waist.

The tears that
stung her throat shocked and appalled her. Where had they been hiding? The
sudden wave of cold warned her the shakes would follow.

She turned to
him, into him. “I need you,” she said as her mouth found him. “Need you.”

Desperate for
warmth, for him, she fisted her hands in his hair.

She knew him
in the dark -- taste, scent, texture. Here, with him, there were no questions.
Just answers. All the answers. She felt his heart that had been so steady
against her back leap against her breast.

He was there
for her as no one else had ever been.

“Say my name.”

“Eve.” His
lips ran warm over the bruise on her face, took the ache away. “My Eve.”

So strong, he
thought. So tired. Whatever images that were playing in her brain she sought to
fight, he'd fight with her. It wasn't tenderness she sought, but a kind of
ruthless comfort. He slid a hand down her body, used his mouth and fingers to
bring her that first sharp release.

She trembled,
but no longer from cold. The aches that ravaged her body were no longer from
fatigue. She arched against him when he found her breast. Quick little bites
that shot flashes of pleasure into her. A busy tongue that laved heat over
heat.

She rolled
with him, her breath ragged as they tangled in the sheets. Her body was a rage
of wants and grew slick under the hands that met them.

He loved the
long, lean length of her, craved it with a hunger that was never quite sated.
Her skin, always a surprise of delicacy, was damp and hot so that it slid like
wet silk over his as they moved together. Her mouth came back to his, burning
like a fever, and drenched them both in madness.

“Inside me.”
She rolled, crawling, clawing over him. Straddling him. “Inside me.” And took
him hard, fast, deep.

Her hips
pistoned, a speed that blurred his brain. He could see the shape of her over
him, the gleam of her eyes against the dark as she drove them both, brutally.

Battered, he
rocked in the pleasure, let her take and take until her head fell back, until
he felt the orgasm punch through her like a fist through glass.

Until she
shattered.

Then he reared
up, dragged her still shuddering body against him. And let go.

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

She fell into
sleep like it was a pit and stayed there, sprawled facedown, for three hours.

She felt
considerably better when she woke. She told herself the headache was gone, and
it was so deeply buried under denial, it was nearly the same thing.

And a couple
of catnaps during the day, she was sure, would do more for her than some
chemical.

She didn't
even make it out of bed before Roarke was sitting beside her, fully dressed. He
had his morning stock reports on screen, muted, a pot of coffee still
seductively steaming on the table in the sitting area.

And he held a
pill in one hand, a suspicious-looking glass of liquid on the bedside table.

“Open up,” he
ordered.

“Uh-uh.”

“I hate to
give you more bruises, but if I must, I must.”

They both knew
he'd enjoy using brute force. “I don't need anything. You're nothing but a
chemi-head pusher.”

“Darling, you
say the sweetest things.” In a move too fast to evade, he had her earlobe
pinched between his thumb and forefinger. One flick of his wrist and the shock
of the twist had her mouth dropping open.

He popped the
pill in. “Phase one.”

She swung at
him, but since she was choking her aim was off. The next thing she knew he was
yanking her head back by her hair and pouring the liquid down her throat.

She swallowed
twice in self-defense before she managed to shove at him.

“I'll kill
you.”

“All of it.”
With grim efficiency, he pinned her and forced the rest of the booster into
her. “Phase two.”

“You're a dead
man, Roarke.” She swiped the back of her hand over her chin where some of the
booster had dripped. “You don't know it, but you've already stopped breathing.
The walking dead.”

“I wouldn't
have to put us both through that if you'd take reasonable care of yourself.”

“And when you
finally realize you're dead, and drop to the ground -- “

“Feeling
better?”

“ -- and
you're laying there, I'm going to step over your cold, lifeless body, open the
doors of that department store you call a closet, and I torch it.”

“Really,
darling. No need to get nasty. Yes, better,” he decided with a nod.

“I hate you.”

“I know.” He
leaned in to give her a light kiss. “I hate you, too. I'm in the mood for eggs
Benedict. Why don't you have your shower, then you can update me over
breakfast?”

“I'm not
talking to you.”

His grin
flashed as he rose. “Such a cliched and female weapon.” He turned, started down
the stairs. And wasn't the least surprised when she landed on his back.

“That's more
like it,” he managed as she squeezed his windpipe with her crooked arm.

“Just be
careful who you call a female, ace.”

She dropped
off, strode naked into the bath. Watching the indignant twitch of her ass,
Roarke chuckled. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

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

She only ate
because there was no point in wasting the food. She only updated him because it
helped her sort through data when she relayed events out loud.

He listened,
idly stroking the cat.

“Between the
hospital and MT staff,” he commented, “the media will have been fed by now.
That could work in your favor.”

“I'm figuring.
These two, they're not the type to go into the wind. Too much ego on the line
for them to stop cold. I've got a lot of data on them. Maybe too much, maybe
that's part of the problem. Too much data, not enough focus. You got all these
lines to tug, they can get tangled on you.”

She got up to
strap on her shoulder harness. “I've got to streamline it.”

“Why don't you
let me take Allegany? It's mine, after all. People would be more likely to tell
me things they wouldn't tell a badge. And what they don't tell me,” he added, “I
can find out in other ways. Ways that would probably be legal, more or less,
since I now own the company.”

“Your
definition of more or less has a wider scope than mine.” But it would save her
time, and time was essential. “Try to stay close to the line on it.”

“Whose line
would that be? Yours or mine?”

“Har. I've got
a briefing with the team at Central. Pass me anything you pick up.”

“Naturally.”
Bringing the cat with him, he rose and crossed to her. Kissed her. “Take care of
yourself, Lieutenant.”

“Why should
I?” She headed for the door. “You get such a charge out of doing it for me.”

Roarke glanced
down at the cat as he listened to his wife's boots click down the hall. “That's
a point.”

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

In the
conference room she'd booked at Central, Eve played the security disc from
Moniqua's building.

“We see here
she's more in line with Bryna Bankhead. Similar physical type, more
sophisticated appearance and lifestyle. He uses yet another look himself here,
which tells me he doesn't like to repeat his character. Keeps it fresh for him.
Same pattern, but he can walk through the performance from a new angle.
Feeney?”

He picked up
the rhythm. “According to the overscan of her home unit, he used the name Byron
in correspondence with her. Probability indicates this is from the poet guy.
Lord Byron. The e-mail messages go back two weeks.”

“Again,
follows pattern. He takes his time. With this pattern he'd have studied her in
real life. Finding a place near her apartment or her workplace. We check both.”

She glanced
over as the door opened. Trueheart, young and ridiculously fresh in his
uniform, flushed as heads turned in his direction. “Sorry. Excuse me, sir. I'm
late.”

“No, you're on
schedule. Report?”

“Sir, subject
Cline's condition remains unchanged. No one without authorization entered her
hospital room. I remained on post, inside the room, throughout the shift.”

“Were there
any calls of inquiry relating to her?”

“Several,
Lieutenant, beginning at approximately oh six hundred when the first media
report hit. Five inquiries from reporters requesting medical information.”

“That jibes as
I've had double that on my office 'link. Sign out, Trueheart. Go get some
sleep. I want you to resume your post at the hospital at eighteen hundred. I'll
clear your duty sheet with your sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.
Lieutenant? I appreciate you requesting me.”

Eve shook her
head when he'd closed the door behind him. “Thanking me for sticking him with
the most boring duty on or off planet. Okay, Roarke's digging into Allegany. I
want all pertinent data on J. Forrester, and this Theodore McNamara who's
currently dodging my messages. And we slog away at the online dealer. We
concentrate on the chemicals. How, why, and where they get their supply.”

“My source in
Illegals only came up with one strong possible,” Feeney said. “One known local
dealer who specialized in the upper-end sex trade and made a profit. Name's
Otis Gunn, and he was in the swim about ten years ago. Had a pretty good line
going until he got cocky and started cooking and serving his own Rabbit at
parties.”

“What's he up
to now?”

“Year nine of
twenty.” Feeney pulled a bag of nuts out of one of his sagging pockets.
“Rikers.”

“Yeah? I
haven't visited the old homestead in a while. Wonder if they've missed me?” She
broke off as her communicator signalled, paced away to answer. “I just cleared
Louise through,” she said as she tucked the communicator away again. “She
claims to have some information on last night's hit.”

She looked at
the case board, at the new picture she'd pinned to it. She'd kept Moniqua's
face separate from the dead. She wanted it to stay there.

When she
turned back she saw something pass between McNab and Peabody. Something with
just a little heat, so she looked away fast.

“Peabody, why
don't I have any damn coffee?”

“I don't know,
sir, but I will rectify that immediately.”

Peabody popped
up, was actually humming under her breath as she programmed the AutoChef. And
there was a bright look in her eyes when she carried the coffee to Eve.

“Eat any good
pizza lately?” Eve muttered, and the light in Peabody's eyes turned instantly
to embarrassed guilt.

“Maybe. Just a
slice ... or two.”

Eve leaned in.
“Ate the whole damn pie, didn't you?”

“It was really
good pizza. I sort of, you know, missed the taste of it.”

“No more
humming on duty.”

Peabody
squared her shoulders. “No, sir. All humming will cease immediately.”

“And no
sparkly-eye crap either,” Eve added and yanked open the door to look for
Louise.

“You can look
pretty sparkly-eyed after really good pizza, too,” Peabody muttered,
then decided not to press her luck when Eve snarled.

“Dallas.”
Louise double-timed it down the corridor. She wasn't wearing a power suit this
morning, but the worn jeans and roomy shirt she usually donned for the clinic.
“I'm so glad you are here. I didn't want to go into all this over a 'link.”

“Sit down.”
Because Louise was pale despite her rush through Central's labyrinth, Eve took
her arm and pulled her to a chair. “Take a breath, then tell me what you've
got.”

“Last night. I
had a date last night. Drinks at The Royal Bar.”

“Roarke's
place? In The Palace Hotel?”

“Yes. I saw
them. Dallas, I saw them sitting in a booth near our table. I spoke with her in
the ladies' lounge.”

“Slow down.
Peabody, some water here.”

“I wasn't
paying attention,” Louise continued. “If I had been I'd have seen ... I can see
her face right now as she sat in front of the mirror. It wasn't just champagne.
I'm a doctor, goddamn it, I should have seen she was drugged. I can see it
now.”

“We see all
kinds of things after. Here.” She shoved the water into Louise's hands. “Drink,
then suck it in, Louise. Suck it in and tell me everything you remember.”

“Sorry.” She
sipped once. “When I saw the media report this morning, I recognized her.
Realized.” She drank again. “I called and checked on her condition on the way
over. There's been no improvement. None. Her chances decrease every hour.”

“Last night.
Concentrate on last night. You're having drinks in the bar.”

“Yes.” She
drew in a breath. Steadied. “Champagne, caviar. It was lovely. We were talking.
I wasn't paying much attention to anything but him. But I did notice, sort of
absently, the couple in the booth. They had champagne and caviar, too. I think,
I'm nearly sure, they were already seated when we got there. They were sitting
very close together. Very intimate. They were a very attractive couple.”

“Okay, what
next?”

“We danced. I
forgot about them. But I went into the lounge, sat down to freshen up, and to
get my balance. It was a very intense first date for me. While I was there, she
came out of the stalls. She was throwing off all kinds of sexual sparks. Told
me to congratulate her, that she was going to get very lucky. I was amused, and
half wishing I could be that confident. They were leaving when I came out. They
were leaving, and I never gave it a thought.”

She sighed.
“Her color was too high, her eyes were glassy. I can see it now.”

“What do you
remember about him?”

“Polished,
attractive. They looked right together, and he looked natural in that sort of
setting. I wish I'd noticed more. Maybe Charles did.”

Eve felt the
jolt in her belly, saw it in the quick jerk of her aide's shoulders. “Charles?”

“Yes. Charles
Monroe. I tried to reach him this morning, but he has his 'link on message mode
only.”

“Okay.” Oh
boy. “I may need to talk to you again.”

“You can reach
me at the clinic all day.” She got to her feet. “I wish I was more help.”

“Everything
helps.”

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

Eve said
nothing about it as she drove. She intended to say nothing about it ever in
this lifetime. But Peabody's absolute silence broke her down.

“You okay
about this?”

“I'm thinking
about it. It wasn't a job.”

“What?”

“They had this
vibe going yesterday. It was a date, not a job. I'm okay with it,” she decided.
“I mean, we're just friends. It was just kind of a shock, that's all.”

She glanced
over, at the entrance to Charles's building, when Eve pulled to the curb.
Apparently, she'd better be all right with it.

He was heading
to the elevator as they stepped off. “Dallas. I was just coming in to see you.
I just saw -- “

“I know. Let's
go inside first.”

“You know,
but... Louise. Is she upset? I need to call her.”

Eve's eyebrows
raised as he fumbled with the keycode of his door. The unflappable Charles was
definitely flapped. “Later. She's okay.”

“Not thinking
straight,” he confessed, and ran a hand absently over Peabody's shoulder as
they all stepped inside. “I spent an hour in the relaxation tank this morning.
Didn't turn on the screen until a few minutes ago. The report hit me in the
face. We saw them, just last night. Him and the woman he tried to kill.”

“Tell me.”

It was almost
identical to Louise's statement, save for the interlude in the lounge. But Charles's
speculation that the man was an LC interested her.

“Why did you
think that?”

“He was
detached, just a little. It's hard to explain. He was very solicitous, very
smooth, but there was calculation under it. He let her make all the physical
advances and let her pay the check. I was preoccupied,” he admitted, “but I
noticed the way he looked after her when she went into the lounge. Calculation,
again. And smugness. Just a quick impression on my end. Some LCs think of
clients that way.”

“How about
clients?”

“Sorry?”

“Some clients
look at LCs that way.”

He studied
Eve's face, then nodded. “Yes. You're right about that.”

She turned for
the door. “Check with some of your associates for me, will you, Charles? For a
client who likes classical music, pink roses, and candlelight.” She tossed a
glance over her shoulder. “And poetry. You people keep client files on
preferences, right?”

“If we want to
stay in business, we do. I'll ask around. Delia? Can I have a minute?”

Eve kept
going. “I'll get the elevator.”

“I know we'd
penciled in dinner this evening,” he began.

“Don't worry
about it.” She found it easy to kiss his cheek. That's what friends were for.
“I like her.”

“Thanks.” He
gave Peabody's hand a squeeze. “So do I.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

It usually
made employees nervous when Roarke showed up unexpectedly at one of his
companies. To his way of thinking, a few nerves helped keep people on their
toes.

He paid well,
and the working conditions that were found in all his companies, factories, subsidiaries,
and offices throughout the world and its satellites were unquestionably high.

He knew what
it was to be poor, and to be surrounded by the dingy, the dark, the dirty. For
some -- himself, for instance -- those were motivators to achieve more. By
whatever means possible. But for most, a stingy wage and an airless box in
which to earn it fostered hopelessness, resentment. And pilfering.

He preferred a
higher overhead, which tended to keep those who belonged to him comfortable,
loyal, and productive.

He walked
through the main level of Allegany, making mental notes on what might need to
be adjusted in security, in decor. He found no glitches in communication as
within moments of his requesting to speak with the chief chemist he was being
escorted to the thirtieth floor. The flustered receptionist who led the way
offered him coffee twice and apologized for the delay in locating Dr. Stiles a
total of three times before they'd reached the man's office.

“I'm sure he's
very busy.” Roarke glanced around the large, somewhat disorganized room where
the sun and privacy screens were both firmly fixed to the window.

The place was
as dim as a cave.

“Oh yes, sir.
I'm sure he is, sir. May I bring you some coffee while you wait?”

Three for
three, he thought. “No, thank you. If
Dr. Stiles is in one of the labs, perhaps -- “

He broke off
when the man stalked in, all flapping lab coat and scowl. “I'm in the middle of
a project.”

“So I
imagined,” Roarke said mildly. “I'm sorry to interrupt you.”

“What are you
doing in here?” he demanded of the horrified receptionist. “Haven't I told you
I don't want people fussing around in my office?”

“Yes, but -- “

“Scoot.
Scoot.” He scooted her personally, waving his hands at her like a farm wife
scattering chickens. “What do you want?” he said to Roarke and slammed the
office door smartly.

“It's nice to
see you again, too, Stiles.”

“I don't have
time for chitchat and politics. We're working on the new heart regenerative
serum.”

“How's it
going?”

“It has
momentum, which you're stopping by calling me out of my lab.”

He sat,
gracelessly, a beefy man with the shoulders of an Arena Ball fullback. His face
was dominated by a nose that sliced down the center of his face like an ax
through granite. His eyes were black and brooding, his mouth set in a permanent
frown. His hair, a dingy gray he refused to change, sprang up out of his scalp
like steel wool.

He was
ill-mannered, ill-tempered, surly, and sarcastic.

Roarke liked
him very much.

“You worked
here when Allegany was associated with J. Forrester.”

“Hah.” Stiles
took out a pipe he hadn't filled in fifteen years and chewed on the stem. “I've
worked here since you were still sucking your thumb and drooling on your chin.”

“Fortunately I
grew out of both distressing habits. The partnership had to do with a
particular project.”

“Sexual
dysfunction. People didn't worry about sex so much, they'd get more done.”

“But what
would be the point?” Roarke lifted a box filled with what appeared to be a
decade's worth of periodical discs, set it on the floor.

“Married now,
aren't you? Sex goes out the window.”

Roarke thought
of Eve rising over him in the dark. “Is that what happened to it?”

The amusement
in the tone had Stiles snorting out what might have been a laugh.

“In any case,”
Roarke continued, “I need information about the partnership, the project, and
the players.”

“I look like a
fucking data bank to you?”

Roarke ignored
the question. More, he ignored the delivery, something he wouldn't have done
for many. “I've already accessed considerable data, but the personal touch is
helpful. Theodore McNamara.”

“Asshole.”

“As I believe
that's your affectionate term for nearly everyone in your acquaintance, and out
of it, perhaps you could be more specific.”

“More
interested in profit than the results. In glory than the big picture.
Administrate you to death and back again just for the enjoyment of proving who
was pushing the buttons. Wanted a name for himself. He was top dog around here
then, and he made sure we all knew it by pissing on everyone as often as possible.
Courted the media like a publicity whore.”

“I take it you
didn't get together for a quick beer after a hard day over the petri dish.”

“Couldn't
stand the son of a bitch. Can't knock his professional skills. There's a
brilliant mind in that puffed up prima donna.”

He sucked on
his pipe a little, thinking. “He hand-selected most of the teams. Brought his
doormat of a daughter in on it. What the hell was her name ... Hah, who gives a
shit? Good brain, worked like a dog, and had nothing to say for herself.”

“Can I assume
from this the project was primarily McNamara's baby?”

“He made the
majority of decisions, made the blueprints for the direction the work took. It
was a corporate project, but McNamara was the figurehead, spokesperson, main
son of a bitch in charge. There was a lot of money riding on the deal.
Corporate money, private investors. Sex sells. We had some luck in a couple
areas.”

“Considerable.”

“Guaranteeing
a man he can still get a boner when he's a hundred and two and letting a woman
keep her biological clock ticking past the half-century mark.” Stiles shook his
head. “Money and media from that bumped things up. The less snappy stuff we
accomplished -- infertility aids without the risks of multiple births -- wasn't
as newsworthy. The brass was looking for more, and McNamara put on the pressure
for us to give them more. We were working with dangerous elements, unstable
ones. Tempting ones. The costs rose, and experiments were pushed too fast to
make up the margin. Bad chemistry. Side effects, unsanctioned use.
Recreational, too. Lawsuits started piling up, and they shut the project down.”

“And
McNamara?”

“Managed to
stay out of the stink.” Stiles's mouth turned down in disgust. “He knew what
was going on. Nothing ever got by him.”

“What about
staff? Anyone you remember who had a particular affection for recreational
use?”

“Do I look
like a weasel?” Stiles barked.

“Actually...
ah, you meant metaphorically, not literally.”

“Give it
another fifty years, you won't look so pretty either.”

“Just one more
thing to look forward to, Stiles.” Roarke switched gears, sobered, leaned
forward. “This is hardly gossip. Two women murdered, one in a coma. If there's
a possibility the source springs back to that project -- “

“What women?
What murders?”

Roarke nearly
sighed. How could he have forgotten who he was talking to? “Get out of the lab
occasionally, Stiles.”

“Why? There
are people out there. Nothing fucks things up faster than people.”

“There's a
person or persons out there right now drugging women with the very chemicals
you and this lab experimented in. Drugging them to death.”

“Not bloody
likely. Do you know how much it would take to induce death? The cost of the
elements involved?”

“I have that
data, thank you. The cost in this case doesn't seem to be an issue.”

“Hell of a lot
of money, even if he's cooking it himself.”

“What would it
take to cook it himself?”

Stiles thought
for a moment. “Good lab, diagnostic and equation units, first-class chemist.
Air-seal lock for holding during stabilization process. Has to be privately
funded, black market. Any accredited lab or center was working on this, I'd
know about it.”

“Put your ear
to the ground,” Roarke told him, “and see if you hear about anything that's not
accredited.” His pocket-link beeped. “Excuse me.”

He engaged
privacy mode, flipped on the earpiece. “Roarke.”

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

Eve hated
cooling her heels. She particularly hated it in a space where she was
considered as much Roarke's wife, maybe more, than a badge. The Palace was one
of those spaces.

She hated it
only slightly less after being escorted to Roarke's hotel office where she
could interview the waiter who'd served Moniqua and her attacker.

She preferred
her visit to Rikers where the facilities were spare, the staff snarly, and the
inmates vicious. Even if her interview with Gunn had been a dead end, it had
been in more comfortable surroundings.

“I'll have
Jamal brought up to you the moment he arrives.” The ruthlessly sleek lounge
hostess gestured when the elevator doors opened. “If there's anything else I,
or any of the Palace staff, can do to aid in your investigation, you've only to
ask.”

It required
both a thumbprint and a code to unlock the office, and this required enlisting
the help of the executive office manager.

Security was
never taken for granted in a Roarke Industries holding.

“In the
meantime” -- the hostess smiled warmly -- “may I offer you any refreshment?”

“A sparkling
mango.” Peabody leaped in with the request before Eve could throw up the wall
against such niceties. She met Eve's dour look. “I'm kind of thirsty.”

“Of course.”
The hostess glided over to the carved cupboard that held the refreshment center
and programmed the AutoChef. “And for you, Lieutenant?”

“Just the
waiter.”

“He's due in
very shortly.” She offered Peabody the mango in a tall, fluted glass. “If
there's nothing else I can do for you, I'll give you your privacy.”

She stepped
out, closing the doors discreetly behind her.

“These are
really good.” Peabody savored each swallow. “You should go for one.”

“We're not
here to slurp down fancy drinks.” Eve wandered the room. Despite the
cutting-edge equipment, it was more luxury apartment than office. “I want the
waiter's statement before I hit Dr. McNamara. Stop guzzling that and check on
Moniqua Cline's condition.”

“I can do
both.”

While she did,
Eve contacted Feeney. “Give me something.”

“You been to
Rikers already?”

“Come and
gone. Gunn and I passed a few pleasantries during which he suggested I perform
various sexual acts on myself that, however inventive, are either anatomically
impossible or illegal.”

“Same old
Gunn,” Feeney said, with some affection.

“Otherwise, he
was a washout. He was pissed off enough to find out somebody was out there
making money in his area for me to believe he doesn't know a damn thing. So
give me something.”

“I told you it
was gonna take time.”

“Time's
passing. One of them may have a date tonight.”

“Dallas, you
know how much crap's passed through this unit? It's a public rental for
Christ's sake. I can't just reach in and pluck a single user out like a
frigging rabbit out of a hat.”

“You've got
Cline's unit. Can't you run the crosscheck?”

“Do I look
like this is my first day on the job? He didn't play with her on this one. Not
that I can find. You want me to explain what the hell I'm doing here, or you
want me to do it?”

“Do it.” She
started to cut off, caught herself. “Sorry,” she added, then cut off.

“No change,”
Peabody told her. “She's still critical and comatose.”

The door
opened. Eve told herself she shouldn't have been the least surprised to see
Roarke walk in.

“What are you
doing here?”

“I believe
this is my office.” He glanced around. “Yes, I'm sure it is. Jamal, this is
Lieutenant Dallas and Officer Peabody. They're going to ask you some questions,
and require your full cooperation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Relax,
Jamal,” Eve told him. “You're not in any trouble.”

“No. This is
about the woman in the coma. I saw a bulletin, and wondered if I should go to
the police station or to work.” He glanced at Roarke.

“The
surroundings are a bit more comfortable here,” Roarke said easily.

“So you say,”
Eve muttered under her breath.

“Sit down, Jamal,”
Roarke invited. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“No, sir.
Thank you.”

“Would you
mind,” Eve interrupted, “if I conducted this interview?”

“Not at all.”
Roarke walked over, took a seat behind his desk. “And no, I'm not leaving.
Jamal's entitled to have a representative present.”

“I would like
to help.” Jamal sat, his back arrow-straight, and folded his hands neatly on
his lap. “Even if I hadn't been instructed to give full cooperation, I would
want to help. It's my duty.”

“Well, that's
a refreshing attitude, Jamal. I'm going to record this. Peabody?”

“Yes, sir.
Record on.”

“Interview
with Jamal Jabar, regarding the attempted murder of Moniqua Cline. Casefile
H-78932C. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, conducting the interview. Also present
Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide and Roarke as subject Jabar's chosen
representative. Jamal, you're employed as waitstaff in The Royal Bar of the
Roarke Palace Hotel. Correct?”

“Yes. I've
been serving here for three years.”

“And last
night, in that capacity, you served a couple in station five of your section.”

“I served four
couples at that station during my shift.”

Eve took out
the stills, held them up. “Do you recognize these people?”

“I do. They
were in my section last night, at station five. They had a bottle of Dom
Perignon '56, beluga caviar with full accompaniments. The gentleman arrived at
just before nine o'clock and was very specific in what he wished to be served,
and how.”

“He arrived
first.”

“Oh yes,
nearly thirty minutes before the lady. But he instructed me to bring the
champagne right away, and to open the bottle. He wished to pour himself. The
caviar was to be served after she arrived.”

“Did he have a
bag, black leather, long strap, with him?”

“He did. He
didn't wish to check it. He kept it on the booth beside him. He made one call
on his 'link. I assumed it was to the lady as he was waiting so long for her.
But he didn't seem impatient, and when I stopped by to make certain he was
comfortable and inquired if his guest was late, he told me she was not.”

“When did he
pour the champagne?”

“I didn't
notice precisely, but when it was nearly nine-thirty, the glasses were full.
She arrived shortly after that. And I realized -- thought I realized why he had
come so early if indeed she was timely. I assumed he'd been nervous as this was
a first date.”

“How did you
know it was a first date?”

“I would have
guessed because there was an excitement, and a slight formality between them at
the beginning. But I was sure of it as I heard her say how happy she was to
finally meet him face-to-face.”

“What did they
talk about?”

Jamal turned
toward Roarke. “We're not supposed to listen to the guests' conversations.”

“You got ears.
Hearing isn't the same as listening.”

“No, it
isn't.” Jamal's face registered his appreciation for her distinction. “When I
served the caviar, they were speaking of art and literature, the way people do
as they look for a comfortable spot to settle with each other. He was very attentive,
but gentlemanly. At the beginning.”

“But that
changed.”

“You could say
they became very ... at ease with each other very quickly. They touched, kissed
in a way that indicated intimacy, or the willingness for it. If you understand
me, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, I
follow you.”

“When I
cleared the caviar, it was the lady who paid. This seemed distasteful to me as
he had been the one to order.” He looked a little sheepish. “But she gave me a
very generous tip. They lingered over the wine. She became, it seemed to me,
quite aggressive. At one point...” He shifted in his chair, relinked his
fingers. “I saw her hand under the table. And, well, in his trousers. As this
is against restaurant policy, I debated reporting it to my supervisor. But then
she got up and went into the ladies' lounge. When she returned, they left.”

“Had you ever
seen either of them before last night?”

“I don't
remember her, but we see so many people. The Royal Bar is a city landmark,
after all. But I remember him.”

Eve's head
came up, just an inch. “How?”

“He's been in
my section before, that same station. Only a week ago, perhaps a little more.
With another man. He didn't look the same, but it was him. Last night, his hair
was lighter and longer. His face different somehow. I can't really say.”

“But you
recognized him?”

“His ring. I'd
admired it before. My wife is a jeweler, so I tend to notice a good piece when
I see it. It's a wide band with alternating ribbons of white and yellow gold
with a square stone. A ruby with a dragon's head carved into it. Very
distinctive. His companion had one as well, but with a sapphire. I thought at
the time they were mates, and these their wedding rings.”

“This man last
night had on the ruby ring.”

“Yes. I nearly
remarked on it, but as he looked so different I assumed he didn't wish to be
recognized. And he indicated, quite clearly, he didn't wish to speak with his
server.”

Eve got to her
feet, circled the room. “Tell me about the time you saw him before. Him, and
the other man.”

“I only
remember it was about a week ago. I don't remember which evening. But I think
it was early in my shift. Near seven o'clock. They had wine and hors
d'oeuvres.” He smiled thinly. “And didn't tip well.”

“How did they
pay?”

“Cash.”

“What did they
talk about?”

“I didn't hear
very much. They seemed to be arguing, but good-naturedly, over which of them
would start the game. They were in very high spirits. And it amused me when I
was taking an order from station six that the gentlemen in five were flipping a
coin.”

Bryna
Bankhead, Eve thought, had died on the flip of a coin. “I need you to work with
an imaging tech, Jamal.”

“I'm afraid I
won't be able to describe him very well.”

“Let us worry
about that. We appreciate your cooperation. You've been a really big help. Someone
will contact you about the imaging.”

“All right.”
He glanced at Roarke, got the nod of approval, and rose. “I hope whatever I've
told you helps you stop him from hurting anyone else.”

“Jamal.”
Roarke got to his feet. “I'll speak to your supervisor. You'll be paid for
whatever time you need to take off to assist the police. Any lost time won't
affect your benefits or salary.”

“Thank you,
sir.”

“We run the
ring,” Eve snapped the minute the doors closed behind Jamal. “Every jewelry
store in New York that does custom work. Order an imaging tech, priority one.”

“On it,”
Peabody replied.

“Lieutenant?”
Roarke's voice stopped her before she'd taken two steps toward the door.

“What?”

“Where are you
going?”

“Central, to
review the security discs. See if I can spot the rings.”

“You can do
that here. And on this equipment, a great deal faster. Computer, replay
security disc, Royal Bar, June six, twenty-two forty-five.”

Working . .
. Display selection?

“Wait a
minute? You've got visual security on the lounge?”

“I believe in
being thorough.”

She cursed
under her breath. “You could've mentioned it.”

“Seeing it's
so much more effective. Wall screen one.”

The lounge
spilled onto the screen, all opulence and color. The elegant sat at tables or
glided on the dance floor while those who served them moved with seamless
efficiency from table to booth, from booth to what she assumed was the kitchen.

The images
sped up as Roarke manually ordered fast-forward.

“He should be
coming along any ... Ah.” He stopped the progress, froze the screen.

Eve stepped
closer, concentrating on his hands. “Can't see the ring from this angle. Play
it forward.” She waited, watched him speak briefly to the evening hostess.
Watched him being led to his reserved booth. His hands were under the table and
out of view when Jamal stepped up to greet him.

“Come on, come
on, come on,” Eve urged. “Scratch your nose or something.”

Jamal returned
with the bottle of champagne, the flutes. Completed the setup. But when he
offered to pour the wine, he was impatiently waved away.

“Freeze
image,” Eve ordered, but Roarke already had.

“Increase
sector twenty through thirty, fifty percent.”

When Roarke
repeated her request, Eve realized the unit was set for his voice command only.
Any irritation she might have felt was overpowered by the satisfaction of
seeing the ruby ring in full detail. “I want a printout of that.”

“How many?”

“Give me a dozen.
And transfer this disc run to my office unit and Peabody's PPC.”

Peabody opened
her mouth, then wisely decided not to ask how a civilian could transfer data to
an official unit without pass codes and electronic authorization.

“Let's see if
we can save some time. Peabody, I want you to do 'link calls to the jewelers.
Show them the image of the ring. See if we can tag the shop or craftsman who
made it. Is there a place she can set up here, for maybe an hour?” Eve asked
Roarke.

“Of course.”
He contacted his executive assistant on the interoffice communicator. “Ariel,
Officer Peabody requires a private workspace. She'll meet you at main.”

He glanced at
Peabody. “Just go out to the main reception this floor. Ariel will take care of
it.”

“Great.” And
with visions of another sparkling mango in her future, Peabody headed out.

“You'll want
to see the rest of this,” Roarke said, and resumed play at normal speed and
range.

On-screen, the
killer lined the flutes side by side. He poured a half glass of each, scanning
the room as they foamed and bubbled. His hand lifted, hovered over one of the
glasses.

“Freeze.
Enhance.”

She walked to
within inches of the screen and saw clearly the trickle of clear liquid
spilling from his hand into the glass. “When I get this bastard, the PA's going
to do fucking cartwheels over this disc. Resume play, same enhancement, quarter
speed. There, there, look at that. He's got a vial palmed in his hand.
Pre-measured or I'm a monkey's butt.”

“And I can
attest you're not. Time stamp,” Roarke continued, “shows he's given himself a
few minutes leeway. In case she's early. He's filled both glasses now, set the
spiked one across the table.”

“Give me full
view again. Look at him. Look at his face. Awful damned pleased with himself. A
little private toast. Now he makes the call. His partner. Everything's in
place, can't wait to get home and tell you how it went. We'll get a lip reader
to study this, see how close I am.”

“Here she
comes,” Roarke commented.

Moniqua
stepped into the lounge. Hesitated. Then her lips curved. “There he is, she's
thinking,” Eve said quietly. “And he's handsome, just as she hoped he would be.
Look, perfect gentleman's getting up. Takes her hand, a little peck on the
knuckles for that romantic touch.

“Champagne?
How delightful. Click glasses. Perfect script. You'd hardly notice that
predatory look on his face as she drinks if you didn't know he was a monster.
If you didn't know, in his mind, he's killing her right now.”

“I'll never
know how you do this. Day after day.” Roarke spoke from behind her now, laying
his hands on her shoulders to rub at the knots of tension.

“Because I
know, in my mind, I'll get him. Them. Both of them. They think they've covered
all the angles, but you never hit them all. There are always mistakes. Little
mistakes. He thinks he's safe, think's he's smart. Anybody looking at them
would see she's the one making the moves here. She's the one sliding closer in
the booth, touching his arm, his hair, leaning in. Who'd look at that pretty
scene and see rape?”

“It hurts you.
Don't tell me it doesn't,” he said, and there was an edge in his voice. “You
bandage it, but it hurts you.”

“It only makes
me work harder to stop him. Oh jeez, there's Charles and Louise.”

“Is that why
you sent Peabody out?”

“I don't need
her distracted, and I'm not thinking about her weird-ass platonic thing
with Charles and her weirder-ass sexual one with McNab because it distracts me.
What is it, standard seduction plan A: Champagne and caviar?”

“You preferred
coffee and red meat as I recall.”

“I'll take
real cow over a bunch of fish eggs any -- There! He's given her a booster. Same
little palm deal, new vial. Two doses in her before they get to her place.
That's off. Lab found traces of Whore in the living room glass, Rabbit in the
bedroom. But her tox screen didn't put that much Whore in her system. That's
why she's not dead.”

“She's
drinking it,” Roarke pointed out.

“Yeah, giving
him a little hand job under the table and swilling it back. He gives her the
third dose at her place. How does her system absorb that much? Because it
didn't. She purged. Sicked it up. She's slim, but not skinny,” Eve mused.
“Doesn't look like the eating disorder type. Probably just got queasy. When she
was in the lounge here, or at home. Tossed up some of the wine and fish eggs,
and enough of the drug to keep her system from fully overloading.

“Mistake,” she
said. “He didn't think of that. When he left her she was out cold and he took
her for dead. Tells me he's not a doctor or any sort of med-tech. It's the
other guy who knows that end. This one's just the computer freak. Run the disc
from the second murder. I want to see if I can get a good image of that ring,
too.”

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

“Kevin, you
really are becoming tedious.” There was a mechanical whoosh and a fog of
cold air as Lucias unsealed the cryo-unit and selected the desired solution in
its freezer pack. “The first time you're nearly hysterical because the girl
died. Now you're biting your nails because this one didn't.”

“I didn't mean
to kill the first one.”

“And did the
second.” With tongs, Lucias set the pack in a slot in a treated glass tray.
“I'd say, as far as the game goes, old friend, you're in the minus column.”

“You're the
one doing the cooking.” Suspicion, mixed with anger and fear, made Kevin's
voice ugly. “What's to stop you from playing around with the mix for my bag?”

“A sense of
fair play, of course. Cheating would lessen the satisfaction of winning. We
agreed on the honor system, Kev.”

“She's very
likely to die, so don't mark your score card quite yet.”

“That's the
spirit. And again in the interest of fair play, I suggest we consider her
hospitalization as five points, as we put death at a full ten. If your little
playmate dies before I get home from my date tonight, you'll actually be in the
lead again. Can't get fairer than that. And if she doesn't...” He shrugged,
then slid the tray with its various packs into a thin compartment, programmed
time and temperature. “I go ahead. We can increase the stakes with some double
booking.”

“Two in one
day?” The horror, and the thrill, of the idea struck Kevin simultaneously.

“If you're man
enough.”

“We haven't
prepared. The schedule calls for three nights off after this evening's round.
None of the targets are in line until next week.”

“Schedules are
for amateurs and drones.” Lucias prepared them both a little cocktail.
Unblended scotch with a dash of Zoner. “Let's rack them up, Kev. We'll both
have impressive American scores before we move the game to France.”

“A picnic in
the park,” Kevin considered. “An afternoon rendezvous. Yes, that might be fun.
And, it would be best to start mixing up our methods. Toss the police a sudden
curve to screw up their probabilities and profiles.”

“Day games.
They have their own special panache, don't you think?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“No pops on
the rings,” Eve told her team.

She'd had to
pull rank, step on toes, and bribe the scheduling clerk with a block of Swiss
chocolate, but she'd managed to hook a conference room.

Roarke was
good for the chocolate and would only smirk a little at the bribery angle.

“Best we've
got is they're not heirlooms. The jewelers Peabody tapped agree that they're
not antiques. If the stones and settings are genuine, the value's estimated at
two hundred fifty k each.”

“Any guy wears
a quarter mil on his finger's a putz” was Feeney's opinion. “And a showoff.”

“Agreed. Putz
and showoff percentages are high. I want to take the search on them global, so
I'm passing that ball to EDD.” And she'd tap her own personal source on showoff
items. Roarke might not wear baubles himself, but he was sure an expert at
buying them and draping them all over her.

“Imaging's working
with the waiter, but it's slow. He's a lot clearer on the rings than the guys
wearing them. We can access security discs for the last week or two weeks from
the Palace, but it'll take time to pick through them, and luck to home in on
our men. I'll be doing that run personally, but meanwhile, if nothing jumps by
morning, I'm going to request our witness agrees to hypnotherapy.”

“There's no
guarantee they weren't wearing enhancements when they met for drinks,” McNab
pointed out and earned a rare nod of approval from Eve.

“That's right,
but we detail the image anyway. We keep building the box until we lock them
inside. Progress on the rental unit?” She glanced at Feeney. “And don't crawl
up my ass.”

“Funny you
should ask. We cleaned out most of the chatter. You wouldn't believe the shit
people send through rentals. Porn sites win ten to one.”

“It's so good
to have my view of the general citizenship reinforced.”

“After that
you got your entertainment and amusement sites, then your financials. Personal
e-mail comes after. Most promising user name is Wordsworth. All his
transmissions are cloaked. You get through one layer of the cloak and the
sucker bounces you to another locale. He shot the goods from the cyber-joint to
Madrid. Start picking there and it bounces to Delta Colony. Then -- “

“I get the
picture. What did you find?”

Feeney sulked
a little, crunched on nuts. “I uncloaked one transmission so far. Looks like he
did three, maybe four more. The one I stripped down went to an account
registered to Stefanie Finch. A lot of mushy stuff.”

“Shoot the
mushy stuff and her address to my units. You're a cyber-wizard, Feeney.”

That soothed
his ruffles. “Yeah, don't I know it. I gotta take a couple hour's medical, get
a quick eye fix. Detective Cyber-Wiz here'll keep on it.”

“I'm in the
field. Peabody, with me. Peel off,” she ordered as she strode out and toward a
glide. “Snag me an energy bar or something, meet me in the garage in ten. I
need to stop by my office first.”

“There's
vending right outside the bullpen.”

“The vending
machines around here hate me. They steal my credits and laugh in my face.”

“You've had
your vending privileges suspended again for kicking the equipment, haven't
you?”

“I didn't kick
it, I punched it. And just get me the damn bar.” Without waiting for a
response, Eve hopped the glide and flipped out her communicator to check in
with the imaging tech.

Peabody merely
sighed and backtracked to the closest food vender. She was perusing the choices,
debating between energy or chemical sweetener for herself when McNab came up
behind her.

Since their
session the night before, she expected him to go for a little pinch or grab.
But he dipped his hands into two of the twelve pockets in his butter yellow
trousers and just stood there.

“You doing
okay?” he asked her.

“Yeah, just
ordering up a few boosts.” Figuring Dallas could have them both in the field
for hours yet, she went for energy and sweetener.

“I figure
you're bent about what happened. You shouldn't be. Stuff like that doesn't mean
anything.”

Thinking of
pizza, and the frantic bout of sex on her living room floor, the second, more
thorough session in her bed, she felt her stomach tighten. “Right. Who said it
meant anything?”

“I'm just
saying you shouldn't be like, embarrassed or upset.”

She turned to
him, kept her face absolutely stone still. “Do I look embarrassed or upset to
you?”

“Look, you
don't want to talk about it, fine with me.” His personal sense of outrage
leaped up, snagged him by the throat. Charles had all but rubbed his new lady
in Peabody's face, and she still couldn't see him for what he was. “Everybody
knows it was never going anywhere. If you thought otherwise, then you deserve
just what you get.”

“Thanks for
the bulletin. And you can just...” She searched for something, and settled on
Eve's favored suggestion. “Bite me.” Shoving him aside with her elbow, she
marched to the nearest glide.

“Fine.” He
kicked the vending machine, storming off as it issued the standard warning. If
she wanted to get twisted up over having her pet LC trot another woman out
under her nose, why the hell should he care?

By the time
Peabody made it to the garage she'd eaten her energy bar and started on the
candy. And she was steaming. Already in the vehicle, Eve merely held out a
hand. Then hissed when Peabody slapped the bar into her palm sharply enough to
burn.

“I should have
kicked his ass. Just mopped the floor with his skinny, bony ass.”

“Christ.” In
defense, Eve shot out of her slot. “Don't start.”

“I'm not
starting, I'm finished. Pig bastard wants to stand there and tell me I
shouldn't be embarrassed, shouldn't be upset because last night
didn't mean anything?”

I will not
listen, I will not listen, I will not listen, Eve repeated over and over in her head. “Finch lives
on Riverside Drive. Alone. Employed as shuttle pilot for Inter-Commuter Air.”

“He's the one
who came knocking on my door with his pitiful pizza and big sloppy
smile.”

“She's
twenty-four,” Eve said desperately. “Single. Perfect fit for target profile of
killer number one.”

“And who's
everyone? Who the hell is everyone?”

“Peabody, if I
just agree that McNab is a pig bastard, that you should kick his ass, even give
you my solemn word that I will help you kick the pig bastard's ass at the first
reasonable opportunity, can we pretend we're focused on this investigation?”

“Yes, sir.”
Peabody sniffed. “But I'd appreciate it if you would not speak the pig
bastard's name in my presence ever again.”

“That's a
deal. We're going to Finch's. Once I get a sense of her, we'll see if she can
stand up as bait or needs to be removed to protective custody. Next on the list
is McNamara. We pin him down today, on or off planet. If McNab... the pig
bastard,” she corrected when Peabody's head snapped around, “manages to uncloak
any more target accounts, we move on them immediately. The civilian targets are
priority.”

“Understood,
sir.”

“Check in with
the officer on duty at the hospital. We're more likely to get word from our own
first on any change in the victim's condition than we are from medical staff.”

“Yes, sir. Can
I say one more thing about the pig bastard? Absolutely the last thing I have to
say on the subject.”

“The last
thing? Well then, I can't wait to hear it.”

“I hope his
balls shrivel up like over-baked prunes then fall off in useless husks.”

“A very
pleasant final image. I applaud you. Now tag the guard.”

Shuttle
pilots, Eve decided, pulled in a fine, fat per annum. The apartment building
was swank and silver, a shining spear ringed by glides that allowed residents
and guests private exterior access if they were cleared.

As she'd
already had her height quota for the next little while, Eve chose the interior
access. The electronic greeting station requested her business, her name, and
destination in a pleasant and no-nonsense tone.

“Police
business. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and aide to see Stefanie Finch.” She held her
badge up to the security screen, listened to the faint hum as it was scanned
and verified.

“I'm sorry,
Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Finch is not in residence at this time. You may leave a
message for her by requesting visitor voice mail.”

“When is she
expected back?”

“I'm sorry,
Lieutenant Dallas, I am not authorized to give that information without a
warrant.”

“I bet Roarke
owns this place,” Peabody commented as she gazed around the spacious
black-and-silver lobby. “It's his style. I bet if you told it you're his wife
-- “

“No.” It
irritated her just to think about it. “I want to see the resident or residents
in apartment 3026.”

“Next-door
neighbor. Good thinking.”

“One moment,
Lieutenant Dallas. Mrs. Hargrove is in residence. I'll submit your request for
visitation.”

“Yeah, you do
that. How do people stand being closed up in these places?” Eve wondered. “Like
little ants in a hive.”

“I think it's
bees in a hive. Ants are -- “

“Shut up,
Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mrs. Hargrove
will allow visitation, Lieutenant Dallas and aide. Please use elevator bank
five. Enjoy your visit, and the rest of your day.”

Alicanne
Hargrove turned out to be not only willing but thrilled at the visit.

“Police.” She
all but pulled Eve into her apartment. “So exciting. Has there been a robbery?”

“No, ma'am.
I'd like to speak to you regarding Stefanie Finch.”

“Stef?” The
animation on Alicanne's pretty face faded. “Oh my goodness. She's all right,
isn't she? She just left this morning for a shuttle run.”

“As far as I
know she's fine. You and Ms. Finch are friendly?”

“Yes, very.
Oh, I'm sorry, sit down.”

She gestured
to the painfully modern living area with its trio of gel-sofas. To Eve, they
looked big enough, squishy enough to swallow any number of household pets.
“Thanks, but this won't take long. Can you tell me if you know if Ms. Finch is
seeing anyone socially?”

“Men? Stef
sees a lot of men. She's a dynamo.”

“Anyone named
Wordsworth?”

“Oh, the poet.
She's been having a romance with him through e-mail. I think they're scheduled
to meet when she gets back from her shuttle run. Day after tomorrow. She'll be
based in London until then. It seems to me she said they'd made a tentative
date for next week. Drinks at the Top of New York. But the way Stef juggles
men, I can't be sure.”

“If she gets
in touch, or comes back before schedule, ask her to contact me. It's urgent. Card,
Peabody.”

Peabody dug
out one of Eve's cards, passed it over.

“Can I tell
her what it's about?”

“Just tell her
to contact me. Right away. Thanks for your time.”

“Oh, but
wouldn't you like some coffee, or -- “ She trotted hopefully after them as Eve
strode out.

“Track her
down, Peabody.” Her own communicator beeped. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.”
Trueheart's earnest face filled the tiny screen. “I think something's going on.
Three medical staff just went into the subject's room, including Dr. Michaels,
and he came on the run.”

“Stand by,
Trueheart. I'm on my way.”

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

Since the
floor nurse all but threw herself in front of the ICU doors, Eve gave her sixty
seconds to produce Dr. Michaels. He whisked out with a swirl of his long white
coat and an annoyed expression.

“Lieutenant,
this is a hospital, not a police station.”

“You can
consider it both as long as Moniqua Cline is your patient. What's her status?”

“She's
conscious, very disoriented. Her vital signs show improvement, but are still in
the dangerous range. She's far from out of the woods.”

“I need to
question her. Hers isn't the only life at stake.”

“Hers is the
life under my care.”

Because one
hard case recognized another, Eve nodded. “Don't you think she'd rest easier
knowing the person who did this to her has been put away? Look, I'm not going
to interrogate her. I'm not going to browbeat her. I understand the pathology
of the victim.”

“I appreciate
the import of your investigation, Lieutenant, but this woman isn't a tool.”

Eve kept her
voice steady. “She's not just a tool to me. But to the man who put her here,
she's less than that. She's a game piece. Bryna Bankhead and Grace Lutz didn't
have a chance to tell anyone what happened to them.”

Whatever he
saw in her face had him pushing open the door. “Just you,” he said. “And I'm
staying with her.”

“That works
for me. Peabody, stand by.”

A nurse
monitored the machines and spoke in a soothing voice. Though Moniqua didn't
respond, Eve thought she heard something. Her eyes traveled back and forth as
if measuring the glass box of the room. They flicked over Eve, passed on, then
lingered on Michaels's face.

“I'm so tired”
was all she said, and her voice fluttered, soft as bird wings.

“You need to
rest.” He stepped to the bed and covered her hand with his.

In that
gesture, Eve's confidence in him solidified. Moniqua wasn't just a patient to
him. She was a person.

“This is
Lieutenant Dallas. She needs to ask you some questions.”

“I don't know
...”

“I'm going to
stay right here.”

“Ms. Cline.”
Eve took the other side of the bed so that Moniqua lay between her and the
doctor. “I know you're confused, and you're tired, but anything you can tell me
will help.”

“I don't
remember.”

“You
corresponded, through e-mail, with an individual you knew as Byron.”

“Yes. We met
in a chat. Nineteenth-century poets.”

“You agreed to
meet him last night, for drinks at the Royal Bar in The Palace Hotel.”

Her brow, pale
as marble, creased. “Yes. At... nine-thirty. Was that last night? We'd been
talking online for weeks, and ... I met him. I remember.”

“What else do
you remember?”

“I -- I was a
little nervous at first. We'd hit it off so well in cyber, but real life's
different. Still, it was just drinks, and in such a lovely setting. If it
didn't work out, what was the harm? But it did. He was just as I expected ...
Did I have an accident? Am I dying?”

“You're doing
very well,” Michaels told her. “You're very strong.”

“You had
drinks with him,” Eve continued, drawing her attention away from Michaels
again. “What did you talk about?”

Moniqua's face
went vague again. “Talk about?”

“With Byron.
When you had drinks with him last night.”

“Oh, ah,
poetry. And art. Travel. We both like to travel, though he's been so many more
places than I have. We had champagne, and caviar. I've never had caviar before.
I don't think it agreed with me. I must have gotten ill.”

“Were you ill
at the hotel?”

“No. I -- no,
I don't think... I must have had too much to drink. I'm usually careful not to
have more than one glass. I remember, I remember now. Feeling very strange, but
good. Happy. He was so perfect, so attractive. I kissed him. Kept kissing him.
I wanted to get a room in the hotel. That's not like me.” Her fingers pulled
weakly at the sheet. “I must've had too much to drink.”

“You suggested
getting a room in the hotel?”

“Yes. He
laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh, but I was so drunk, I didn't care. Why did
I drink so much? And he said ... Take me home with you, and we'll do things the
poets write of.”

She closed her
eyes. “Corny. But it didn't seem corny then. He told me to pay the check. I
wasn't offended or surprised that he meant for me to pay, even though he'd made
the date. I went in to freshen up, and all I could think was I was going to
have amazing sex with this perfect man. And I could hardly wait to get my hands
on him. We took a cab. I paid for that, too. And in the cab...”

The faintest
color washed into her cheeks. “I think I must've dreamed all this. I must have
dreamed it. He whispered a suggestion in my ear. What he wanted me to do.” She
opened her eyes again. “I went down on him, in the cab. I couldn't wait to. It
wasn't a dream, was it?”

“No, it wasn't
a dream.”

“What did he
give me?” She groped for Eve's hand, her fingers trying to squeeze, but only
twitching. “What was in those drinks?”

Her hand
moved, restlessly. Eve covered it. Gripped it. “I wasn't drunk, was I? It was
like being hypnotized.”

“You weren't
drunk, Moniqua, and you're not responsible for anything you did. He drugged
you. Tell me what happened when you got to your apartment.”

“She needs to
rest now.” Michaels glanced at the monitors, back at Eve. “She's talked long
enough. You have to leave.”

“No.”
Moniqua's fingers moved in Eve's hand. “He gave me something that made me do
those things to him, with him, made me let him do those things to me? He nearly
killed me, didn't he?”

“Very nearly,”
Eve agreed. “But you're a hell of a lot stronger than he anticipated. Help me
catch him. Tell me what happened in your apartment.”

“It's hazy. I
was dizzy, queasy. He put on music, lit candles. He had candles in his bag, and
another bottle of champagne. I didn't want anymore, but he wanted me to drink.
I did exactly what he asked me to do. Every time he touched me, I wanted him to
touch me again. He said it needed to be perfect. That he was going to prepare
... set the stage. I should wait. I felt sick. I didn't want to tell him I felt
sick because he might not stay. So when he went into the bedroom, I went into
the bath and was sick. After, I felt a little better. Steadier. I went into the
bedroom. He had champagne by the bed, and dozens of candles lighted. There were
rose petals all over the bed. Pink roses, like the ones he must have sent me at
work a few days before. I'd never had anyone go to such trouble.”

Tears spilled
down her cheeks. “It was so lovely, almost painfully romantic. I actually loved
him, in that instant when I walked in and saw him, I was wildly, recklessly in
love with him. He undressed me, said I was beautiful. It was all very gentle at
first, very sweet and intimate. A fantasy, really. After a while, he handed me
the glass. I told him I didn't want more champagne, but he just looked at me,
told me to drink it and I did. Then it wasn't gentle. It was outrageous. Like
going mad. Like becoming an animal. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Burning
from the inside out, and my heart beating so fast it felt like it would
explode. He was watching me. I can see his eyes now, watching me. He told me to
say his name. But it wasn't his name.”

“What name was
it?”

“Kevin. He
told me his name was Kevin. Then it was as if things inside me, my head, my
body, ripped. And everything stopped. I couldn't move or see or hear. Buried
alive.” Now she wept. “He buried me alive.”

“No, he
didn't.” Eve leaned over before Michaels could move in. “You're here and safe
and alive. He's never going to touch you again. Moniqua, he's never going to
touch you again.”

She turned her
face weakly to the pillow as the tears flowed. “I let him inside me.”

“No, you
didn't. He violated you. He forced you.”

“No, I let --
“

“He forced
you,” Eve repeated. “Look at me. Listen to me. He took your choice away, and he
raped you. His weapon was a drug instead of a knife or his fists, but it was
still a weapon. Putting rose petals on the bed doesn't make what he did any
less criminal. But you beat him. And I'm going to put him away for you. I know
someone you can talk to, who'll help you through this.”

“I never told
him to stop. I didn't want him to.”

“You're not
responsible. This wasn't about sex. Rape never is. This was about him
controlling you. You couldn't stop him last night, but you can now. Don't let
him control you now.”

“He raped me,
and then he left me to die. I want him to pay for making me feel like this.”

“Leave that
part to me.”

Eve felt
slightly ill when she stepped out again. It was brutal, always brutal, for her
to interview rape victims. To look at them and see herself.

She took a
moment, bracing a hand against the outer doors, waiting to settle again.

“Lieutenant?”

She
straightened, turned to Michaels.

“You did very
well with her. I'd expected you to push for more detail.”

“I will, next
time. I've got to dig out my rubber hose. Can't recall where I left it.”

He offered a
slow, half smile. “I didn't expect her to live. Medically, her chances were
slim to none. But that's one of the rewards of my profession. The small
miracles. She still has a rough road ahead, physically and emotionally.”

“You can
contact Dr. Charlotte Mira.”

Impressed, he
angled his head. “Dr. Mira?”

“If she can't
treat Moniqua personally, she'll give the case to the best rape therapist
available. You guys work on giving her back her physical and emotional health.
I'll work on giving her justice.”

She pushed
through the doors, signalled to Peabody, and kept going. She wanted out of the
hospital almost as much as she wanted to breathe.

“Sir.” Peabody
jogged to keep pace. “Everything all right?”

“She's alive,
she's talking, and she's given us the bastard's first name. Kevin.”

“Solid. But I
was talking about you. You look a little whipped.”

“I'm fine. I
just hate fucking hospitals,” she muttered. “Maintain the guard on Moniqua, and
the checks on her condition. Make a note to contact Mira and ask her to consult
with Michaels over her therapy.”

“I didn't
think Mira took private consults.”

“Just make a
note of it, Peabody.” She kept her breathing shallow until she shoved through
the hospital doors and strode outside. “Christ! How do people stand being in
those places? I've got a personal call to make. Step aside, will you? Call
Moniqua's status into the commander and tell him my report will be
forthcoming.”

“Yes, sir.
There's some benches just over there. Why don't you make that call sitting
down?” Because you're white as a sheet, she wanted to say. But knew better.

Eve walked
over to sit in a little area of green the city planners liked to call
micro-parks. The trio of dwarf trees and scatter of flowers were jammed into a
narrow island between parking lots. But she supposed it was the thought that
counted.

Still, she
wished they'd thought to plant something with fragrance. She wanted the stench
of hospital out of her system.

She wasn't
sure where to tag Roarke. She tried his personal line first, was switched to
voice mail so she disconnected. She put the next through to his midtown offices
and hit on his admin.

“I need to
locate him.”

“Of course,
Lieutenant. He's on a holo-transmission, if you wouldn't mind waiting a moment.
How are you?”

Right, Eve
thought. Courtesy and conversation, a duo she often neglected. “Fine, thanks.
How are you, Caro?”

“Very well.
Delighted the boss is back, though it seems we're busier yet when he's in the
cockpit. I'll just beep in and let him know you're on the line.”

Waiting, Eve
tipped her face back to the sun. It was always cold in hospitals, she thought.
The kind of cold that crept into her bones.

“Lieutenant.”
She focused her attention on Roarke's voice, on his face on-screen. “What's
wrong?” he queried.

“Nothing. Need
a favor.”

“Eve. What's
wrong?”

“Nothing.
Really. Moniqua Cline regained consciousness. I just finished questioning her.
She's going to tough this out, but it's hard on her.”

“And on you.”

“I know some
of what's going through her head. I know some of what she's going to feel in
the middle of the night.” She shook it off. “That's not why I called, and
you're in the middle of a transmission.”

“It can wait.
A benefit of being in charge. What can I do for you?”

“Question. Is
it possible for you to monitor a standard account, monitor any e-mail, block
same?”

“Private
citizens who attempt any of the above are in violation of e-privacy laws and
subject to fines and/or imprisonment.”

“Which means
you can.”

“Oh. I assumed
the question was rhetorical.” He smiled at her. “Who do you want me to
monitor?”

“Stefanie
Finch. She's a potential target. At the moment she's in the air somewhere
between the U.S. and England on shuttle runs. When she lands, I want to tell
her who and what she's been playing with in hopes I can enlist her help to reel
these guys in. But I don't know how she'll react, and she's going to have too
much time to fiddle around before I have her under control. I can't chance her
going off on a rip and tipping her cyber-pal.”

“So you want
to block all her transmissions and cyber-activities?”

“That's the
ticket. I don't want anything she sends getting through until I'm sure of her
cooperation and I have a warrant to put a filter on her transmissions. The
warrant's not going to cover us until she's back in New York.”

“You know how
it excites me whenever you ask me to slip through one of the loops in the law.”

“Remind me
later why I married a pervert.”

“I'll be happy
to.” His smile spread because color had come back into her face.

“How soon can
you have it done?”

“I have some
things to finish up here. Best to do this little task at home on the
unregistered. Give me two hours. Oh, Lieutenant? I don't suppose this bit of
business goes into my report as expert consultant, civilian.”

“Kiss ass.”

“As long as
it's yours, darling.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Eve
finally ran Theodore McNamara to ground, she was shown into his office by a
bird of a woman who chirped about the doctor's demanding schedule and the need
to keep the audience brief.

“The doctor
really has no time for an extra appointment today. As you know, Dr. McNamara
has just returned from a very important consult session on Tarus II.”

“He's about to
have a very important consult session on Planet Earth,” Eve returned. For her
own amusement, Eve lengthened her stride so the woman was forced to trot to
keep up as they navigated the short breezeway that connected McNamara's office
to the main building at J. Forrester. Outside the glass a medi-copter banked
left for landing on the heliport of the adjoining hospital facilities.

She saw a half
dozen medical personnel waiting for the transport, and imagined the noise was
horrendous. But inside the breezeway the air was silent, cool, and faintly
floral.

It appeared
Dr. McNamara had disconnected himself from the petty pains and troubles of
those his facility served.

The breezeway
opened into the office area done in stark white. Walls, rugs, consoles, chairs,
even the uniforms of the drones who went silently about their business were
unrelieved white.

It was, Eve
thought, like walking inside an eggshell.

They passed
through a set of glass doors that whisked open silently at their approach, and
moved down yet another corridor. At the end loomed a set of glossy white doors.
The woman knocked with a kind of fearful reverence.

The doors slid
apart, but the woman stood where she was. “Lieutenant Dallas and aide, Dr.
McNamara.”

“Yes, yes. See
that we're not disturbed. Ten minutes. Come in, Lieutenant. My time is very
valuable.”

He sat in
front of a wall of glass at a desk so massive and white it resembled an ice
floe. It stood on a platform three steps above the rest of the office so that
McNamara peered down, an eagle on his perch, at lesser mortals.

His hair was
white -- a sleek, close-cut cap that hugged his skull. He had a long, hollowed
face dominated by dark, impatient eyes that scowled beneath the white peaks of
his brows. His black suit was a slash of power against the frigid white of the
room.

“Golly,”
Peabody said under her breath, “it's the great and powerful Oz.”

“State your
business,” he demanded. “I'm a busy man.”

And one who
liked to intimidate, Eve mused. They were not invited to sit, but even standing
she was forced to look up to meet his gaze.

“You'd have
saved us both time if you'd returned the transmissions I sent to you on Tarus
II.”

“The consult
session was my priority. I am not attached as a medical consultant to the
NYPSD.”

“Which makes
you a civilian, and gives me the authority to continue this interview at Cop
Central, which I will enforce if necessary. Now, we can continue this pissing
contest or you can agree to cooperate.”

“You're in my
office. It appears I am cooperating.”

Annoyed, Eve
strode up the steps to the platform. She saw cold fury wash over his face as he
was forced to tip his head back. “Peabody. Stills.”

Though she knew
it was small of her, Peabody enjoyed watching her lieutenant screw up the power
structure of the room. “Yes, sir.” She passed the photos up.

Eve laid them
on the pristine surface of the desk. “Do you recognize any of these women?”

“I do not.”

“Bryna Bankhead,
Grace Lutz, Moniqua Cline. Ring any bells?”

“No.”

“Funny as
their names and faces have been all over the media the last few days.”

His stare
never wavered. “I've been off planet, as you know.”

“Last I heard
they had media transmissions on Tarus II.”

“I don't have
time for gossip and media blathering. Nor for guessing games. Now, Miss Dallas,
if you'd tell me what it is you wish to discuss -- “

“Lieutenant
Dallas. You were involved in a research project partnered by J. Forrester and
Allegany Pharmaceuticals that involved experimentation with certain controlled
substances.”

“Research on
sexual dysfunction and infertility. Successful research,” he added, “that
resulted in two landmark medications.”

“The project
was aborted due to cost overruns, lawsuits, and rumors of substance abuse and
sexual misconduct by project staff.”

“Your
information is flawed. Abuse was never substantiated. The project produced
important results and simply ran its course.”

“Apparently
someone's still experimenting. Two women are dead, another's in critical
condition. They were given fatal doses of the substances commonly known as
Whore and Wild Rabbit, in combination. Someone has a substantial supply of
both, or the means to create them.”

“Drugs used to
benefit mankind can and will be abused in the wrong hands. It's not my job to
police the masses. It's yours.”

“Who on your
former research team might have those wrong hands?”

“All doctors
and technicians who were involved were thoroughly screened and hand selected.”

“And still,
there was recreational and criminal use. This isn't gossip or blathering,” she
said before he could interrupt. “This is a murder investigation. Sex and power,
that's a heady temptation.”

“We were
scientists, not sex mongers.”

“Why are all
the records sealed? Why are there seals on all the civil cases brought against
the project?”

“No civil
cases were ever brought to trial. No charges of misconduct were ever pressed.
Therefore, it's a matter of privacy to seal records of frivolous suits that
impinged upon the names and reputations of those associated with the project.
Of maintaining dignity.”

Eve pushed the
photographs closer. “Someone invaded their privacy, Doctor. Big-time. And
didn't leave them with their dignity.”

“That has
nothing to do with me.”

“The project
made a lot of money for its top people and its initial investors. It takes a
lot of money to play with these particular illegals. I'm looking for two men,
men with the means to buy or create substantial quantities of those illegals.
Men with expert knowledge of chemistry and electronics. Men who consider women
not only fair game, but disposable entertainment. Sexual predators, Dr.
McNamara. Who worked with you, who fits that bill?”

“I can't help
you. Your problem has nothing to do with the project, nothing to do with me.
The project created medication that changed lives. I won't have you besmirch my
work or my reputation because you're unable to do your job.”

He shoved the
stills back toward Eve. “It's more likely these women invited, even encouraged
the use of the drugs. Any woman who agrees to meet a man she knows only through
mail is soliciting a sexual advance.”

“I guess she
solicits them just because she was born with tits.” Eve scooped up the stills.
“It sounds like you caught some blathering after all. I never mentioned how
these women met their attackers.”

“Your time's
up.” He pressed a button under the desk and the doors opened. “If you wish to
speak with me again, you'll have to contact my attorneys. If I hear any public
mention of my name, this facility, or the project in connection with your
investigation, they will be contacting you.”

She debated
hauling him in then and there, then punching her way through the legal uproar.
The media would go wild, and the case could potentially be damaged by the
exposure. “I always wonder how it is some doctors have such little respect for
human life.” She stepped off the platform, handed the stills to Peabody. “We'll
talk again,” she told him and strode out just before the doors clicked shut at
her back.

“He's a
creep,” Peabody said. “A misogynist and a demigod.”

“And he knows
something. I want a low profile on this, so we play it by the book with him.
Contact his reps and arrange a formal interview at Central. We're going to put
some pressure on breaking those sealed records. Get yourself back to Central
and start the paperwork.”

“He'll fight
it.”

“Yeah, but
he'll lose. Eventually. I'm working from home. I'll pass on data as I get it.”

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

Roarke was
already there when she arrived, but she left the door between their offices
closed. She sat at her desk and began generating a series of reports. She knew
enough about politics and demigods to be certain she'd have to cover her ass as
far as McNamara was concerned. Men like him didn't just call lawyers. She had
no doubt her commander's, the chief's, the mayor's, even the governor's ears
would be ringing with her name in very short order.

She could
handle the heat, but she didn't want the fire taken off the case while it was
scorching her ass.

When she was
satisfied she transmitted copies to all appropriate parties. Next came the
pitch to break sealed files for investigatory use in multiple homicides. It was
a tricky business, and even if the request went through, it would take precious
days.

There was a
quicker way. She glanced up at the door that joined her workspace with
Roarke's. Quicker, slicker, and virtually undetectable if she gave him the job.

She'd crossed
that line before and would again if she had to. But for now, she'd try the
system.

“Computer.”
Absently she rubbed at the back of her neck. “All available data on McNamara,
Dr. Theodore, display on wall screen.”

Working ...
Data displayed.

She rose,
working the tension out of her shoulders as she read the information. The man
was eighty-six, and obviously made good use of his face and body sculptors. His
education and work records were impressive. He'd had one marriage, and one
child from it -- a daughter.

Eve pursed her
lips and speculated.

When she heard
the door behind her open, she spoke without turning. “You've got a man who
doesn't particularly like women as a species, considers them inferior. Well, to
be fair, considers everyone inferior, but I got a definite vibe women were
lowest on his feeding chain. Called me 'miss,'“ she grumbled.

“And lived?”
Roarke stepped behind her and began rubbing her shoulders. It passed briefly
through her mind that he had some sort of weird psychic ability to hit just the
right spot.

“I'd have
knocked him around for it, but he's almost ninety. Anyway, a guy like this has
one kid and that kid turns out to be a female. That'd be a disappointment,
wouldn't it?”

“I suppose it
would, if he's an asshole.”

“Yeah, he's an
asshole. So, why didn't he try again, until he got it right? If the wife was
the problem, fertility or otherwise, there are plenty of ways around it. Even
forty, fifty years ago, there were ways around it. But maybe he didn't have
enough soldiers to do the job. What a pisser.”

“Speaking as a
man, I can say that finding oneself unable to create a child would be difficult
to accept.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “And if a child was desired, I'd
do whatever could be done to fix the problem.”

“Fertility
tests ... they must be really personal, embarrassing. Especially for a guy with
a really whopping ego.” She glanced over her shoulder.

“Are you
asking my opinion as you assume I have a really whopping ego?”

“We could fill
Madison Square with your ego, pal. It just runs different than this jerk's.
Maybe it explains why he shifted gears from private practice into research --
sexual dysfunction and fertility research. Let's take a look at the daughter.
Computer, standard background run on Dunwood, Sarah. Nee McNamara.”

Working ...

“To show how
good-natured I am,” Roarke began, “I'll ignore that insult and tell you I've
just finished my assignment. Transmissions are blocked, and will be diverted to
an account I've just created for you.”

“I didn't ask
you to divert them.”

“Two services
for the price of one.” He whipped her around and crushed his mouth to hers. His
hands gripped her butt, squeezed, and molded her body against his. “There. That
ought to cover it.”

“Stop trying
to cloud my brain. I'm on the clock.”

Data
accessed ... Display or audio?

“Display,” Eve
said even as Roarke ordered audio.

Conflicting
command. Holding ...

“Cut it out,”
Eve ordered as he tugged her shirt from her waistband. “What's wrong with you?”

“Apparently
not a thing.” But he laughed and let her muscle away. “Display data.”

“She's
fifty-three,” Eve said. “Followed in Daddy's footsteps right down the line.
Same schools, same training, same hospital residency. And straight into
research. One marriage. One child. Carbon copy. Except she got the boy. And
look at his DOB. Only a year after the start of the project. She'd already been
married eight years. Wouldn't surprise me if she not only worked on the
project, but was part of the study.”

She blew out a
breath. “And what the hell does that have to do with murder? There's a connect.
I know there's a connect. Her husband was part of the team, too. But he's too
old for these hits. And the son's too young. What is he twenty-one, twenty-two?
He was an infant during the heyday of the project. Still... Computer, access
all available data, Dunwood, Lucias. Display on wall screen.”

Working ...

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

While his data
was being accessed a few blocks away, Lucias strolled into the formal parlor of
his townhouse. His grandfather rarely paid personal calls, and certainly never
spur-of-the-moment visits.

If the king
dropped by, there was a reason. Speculating on what it might be had Lucias's
palms going damp. He wiped them distractedly on his slacks before he entered
the room, smoothed them over his tight red curls, then fixed a pleased and
welcoming expression on his face.

“Grandfather,
what a wonderful surprise. I didn't realize you were back.”

“I arrived
last night. Where is Kevin?”

“Oh, at his
computers, where else? Shall I arrange for drinks? I have a very nice scotch. I
think you'll approve of it.”

“This isn't a
social call, Lucias. I want to speak with Kevin as well.”

“Of course.”
The sweat that had dampened his palms ran in a thin, nasty line down his back.
He gestured casually to the waiting server droid. “Tell Mr. Morano my
grandfather's here and wishes to see him.”

“Immediately,”
McNamara added.

“Of course.
And how was your trip?” Lucias went to the antique cabinet that held the
liquor. His grandfather might not want a drink, but he needed one.

“Productive. A
word you've become unfamiliar with since you graduated college.”

“With honors,”
Lucias pointed out and poured scotch neat into heavy crystal. “Just taking a
sabbatical after years of study. And actually, I've been doing some work in my
lab. A pet project. You know all about pet projects, after all.”

McNamara
turned away briefly. The boy was a disappointment to him. A severe
disappointment. He had helped create him, hand-picking the man he'd deemed best
suited for his daughter. A man much like himself -- intelligent, driven,
strong. Ambitious.

Their
inability to conceive a child had been a monumental frustration for him, but
had helped him launch the project. The project that had advanced his career,
created his grandson. And had very nearly ruined everything.

Still, he had
risen above it. His name had never been marred. And never would be.

And hadn't he
nurtured the child? Educated him, molded him, given him every opportunity to refine
and develop the superior mind he'd been born with?

Instead, the
boy had been spoiled. His mother's doing, McNamara thought grimly. A woman's
weakness. She'd pampered and coddled him. Had ruined him.

Now, he was
very much afraid that child had put his name, his career, his reputation in the
greatest jeopardy.

“What have you
done, Lucias?”

Lucias downed
the scotch, poured more. “I'm not prepared to talk about the experiment, though
it's coming along quite well, I believe. And how is Grandmother?”

“As ever.” He
took the glass Lucias offered, studied his grandson's face. And saw what he had
always seen. A blank wall. “She misses you. It seems you had no time to visit
her, or call, while I was away.”

“Well, I've
been a busy little bee.” The whiskey helped, considerably. “I'll be sure to
make time for her very soon. Ah, here comes Kevin.”

He went back
to pour a drink for his friend, and yet another for himself.

“Dr. McNamara,
what a delightful surprise.”

“So I just
said myself.” Lucias handed Kevin the glass. “It isn't often we're so
privileged. That will be all,” he said to the droid, then dropped into a chair.
“Now, what shall we talk about?”

“I want to see
your lab,” McNamara demanded.

“I'm afraid
not.” Lucias sipped scotch. “You know how we mad scientists are about our
experiments. Hush-hush. Top secret. After all, I learned all about the
sacrosanct from you, didn't I?”

“You've been
using illegals again.”

“No, I
haven't. I learned my lesson. Didn't I, Kevin? We both learned our lessons well
when you had us tucked quietly away in rehab on Delta last year. Hush-hush,” he
said again and nearly giggled. “Top secret.”

“You're a
liar.” McNamara exploded, striding to his grandson, knocking the heavy glass
from his hand. “Do you think I can't recognize the signs? You're using again.
Both of you. Destroying your minds, your futures for a weakness, a temporary
indulgence.”

“That glass
was an heirloom.” Lucias's hands wanted to shake, but with anger as much, as
the innate fear, the bone-deep loathing his grandfather always brought to him.
“You should have more respect for family, Grandfather.”

“You speak to
me of respect? The police came to my office today. They questioned me. I've
been ordered into Interview tomorrow, and there's a request being processed to
open the sealed files on the project.”

“Oh-oh.”
Lucias's bright blue eyes twinkled, a mischievous boy caught in a prank, as he
looked at Kevin. “Now that would be quite the scandal. What do you think,
Kevin, about having all those secrets, the grand passions that conceived us
both, revealed?”

“I think it
would be embarrassing, in some quarters.”

“Yes, indeed.
Couples, well, coupling, under the fierce scrutiny of the exalted Dr. Theodore
McNamara. No candlelight and music to romanticize the exercise. No indeed. No
muss, no fuss. Just a clinical process hyped by sexual enhancement drugs with
one purpose. Us.”

He laughed now
and swilled back scotch. “And a rousing success it was.”

“Medical
advancement. Procreation of the species.” McNamara's voice trembled with rage.
“I had assumed, incorrectly it seems, that both of you were mature enough to
understand the scope of what you were part of.”

“But then we
weren't really part of it, were we?” Lucias countered. “We were simply part of
the results. I don't believe we were given a choice in the matter. I don't
believe a number of the participants were, either. Isn't that what we
discovered, Kev, when we read through the files?”

“Those files
are sealed,” McNamara said.

“Seals were
made to be broken.” Lucias continued. “Just like rules. You broke a number of
rules, Grandfather, in the name of science. Why shouldn't Kevin and I do the
same, in the name of... entertainment?”

“What have you
done?” McNamara demanded.

“Nothing to
concern you.”

“It concerns
me when I'm ordered into Interview. And it best concern you as well, as
questions will be asked about murdered women that lead to you.”

“To us?” Kevin
set down his drink. “But that's not possible. How could they know -- “

“Shut up.”
Lucias sprang to his feet. “What did they say about us? What did you tell
them?”

“I didn't want
to believe it.” McNamara braced a hand on the back of a chair, forced himself
to stand when he wanted to sink. “You murdered those women.”

“Don't be
ridiculous. Murder? You've lost your mind. If you're in some sort of trouble
with the police -- “ Lucias's tirade was cut short as McNamara slapped him.

“You disgust
me. All of my hopes for you, my dreams, and look at you. You're worthless, you
and your pathetic friend. All of your talent, wasted, wasted on games, drugs,
and your selfish pursuit of pleasure.”

“You created
me.” Tears, hot with humiliation from the slap, stung Lucias's eyes. “You made
me.”

“I gave you
all that was in my power to give. Every advantage. And it was never enough.”

“You gave me
orders! Expectations. I've detested you all my life. I live as I choose to live
now, and there's nothing you can do.”

“You're right.
Quite right. And nothing I will do. I won't clean up your mess this time. I
won't pay to have you protected, nor will I sacrifice myself to shield you.
When they find you, and they will find you, I won't lift a hand.”

“You won't let
them take me. I'm all you have.”

“Then God help
us both.”

Changing
tacks, Lucias grabbed McNamara's arm, put a plea in his voice. “Grandfather, we
mustn't argue like this. I apologize. I was overwrought. Kevin and I have been
working very hard.”

“Working?”
McNamara repeated. “How did you come to be monsters? With so much at your
fingertips.”

“We're
scientists, Dr. McNamara.” Kevin ranged himself beside Lucias. “This is all a
mistake. That's all. Just a mistake. There was an accident.”

“Yes, an
accident.” Lucias tried to nudge his grandfather into a chair. “And perhaps we
got a little carried away. But these things happen when you try to... expand
the box. You understand that. They were only women. Test subjects.”

“Take your
hands off me. You'll face this, both of you. You'll pay the price for your
actions. If you want my help, you'll come with me to the police tomorrow. I'll
arrange for a legal team, and a psychiatric study.”

“We're not
crazy! You'd let them lock me up? Your own flesh and blood.” He leaped,
knocking over a table as he fell on top of his grandfather. The priceless lamp
that stood on it crashed and showered glass. Enraged, McNamara shoved Lucias
aside and tried to regain his feet.

“For years I
tried not to see what you were. Allowed myself to see you -- both of you -- as
what I knew you could be.” He managed to kneel, braced a hand on the arm of the
chair.

“What we've
done is no different from what you did a generation ago.” Lucias swiped a
trembling hand over his mouth. “You dosed test subjects, some with their
knowledge, some without, for the purpose of copulation and conception. You did
it for procreation, so you say. We're doing it for fun. And with more style.”

“You've
killed.”

“A lab rat is
a lab rat and an acceptable sacrifice.”

It was horror
now that clutched in McNamara's throat. “You've destroyed yourselves. I'm going
to the police. The two of you are nothing but an experiment gone wrong.”

With a cry of
fury, Lucias snatched up the base of the lamp, used it like a club.

“We're men!
Men!” Blood sprayed over the chair, the rug as McNamara slumped to the side,
flailed out to try to defend himself. “They'll send us to prison. To prison.
Stupid old bastard!” He staggered to his feet, screaming as he pounded his
grandfather to the floor. “I won't go in a cage because you have no vision.”

Breath
heaving, Lucias stepped back, tossed the bloodied lamp aside.

“My God.”
Kevin's voice was soft, almost reverent. “Is he dead?”

McNamara's
face was bloody, his mouth agape. Still panting, Lucias crouched down and
checked for a pulse. “No, not yet.” Then he sat back on his haunches and forced
himself to think. “But he will be. He has to be. He'd give us over to the
police, give us over like we were nothing.”

Though his
breathing was shallow, Kevin nodded. “We can't let that happen.”

“We'll finish
it.” Lucias got carefully to his feet. “But not here. We have to take him away
from the house, make it look like a robbery.”

“You ... I've
never seen anything ...”

“I've done us
both a favor.” Staring down at his grandfather, Lucias patted Kevin's arm. He
was in control again. Perhaps, he realized, fully in control for the first time
in his life. “He's outlived his usefulness. And he's a danger to us. So, we
take him out of the equation.”

“It has to be
done. But, my God, I've never seen so much blood.”

“If you're
going to be sick, get it over with.”

“No, I'm not
going to be sick.” He couldn't look away. “So much blood. It's ... fascinating.
The others, the women, it was almost gentle, really. But this...” He moistened
his lips and his face was pale and shining as he looked at his friend. “How did
it feel? When you struck him? How did it feel?”

Lucias had to
stop and consider. His hands, slick with blood, were steady now. His mind
already clearing. “Powerful,” he decided. “Extremely. Energizing.”

“I want to try
it.”

“We'll finish
him off together then. But not here.” Lucias checked his wrist unit. “We have
to work quickly. I have a date tonight.”

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

It didn't take
long, all things considered.

It was a
matter of pulling his grandfather's car into the garage. As a point of pride
and control, Dr. McNamara made a habit of driving himself nearly everywhere. He
wouldn't, Lucias thought, drive himself to his final destination. With Kevin's
help, he wrapped his grandfather's nude body in plastic and folded it into the
trunk.

“He might have
told someone he was coming here,” Kevin pointed out.

“Low
probability. He disliked sharing personal business.”

“Your
grandmother?”

“Her least of
all.” Lucias tossed the bag of clothes and valuables into the trunk. “It
wouldn't have occurred to him to bother, nor would it occur to her to ask if he
had any plans. Now.” He slammed the trunk closed, brushed his hands together.
“You've reprogrammed the droid?”

“Check.
There'll be no record we had any company.”

“Excellent. We
have the location for disposal your computer scan indicated was the best for
our purposes. You follow in your car, we finish it, then dump him and the
goodie bag. You did weigh it down enough, didn't you?”

“Absolutely.
It'll sink to the bottom of the river.”

“And he won't.
Perfect. We torch the car, drive back home. And I have plenty of time to dress
for my evening out.”

“You're a cool
one, Lucias. I've always admired that about you.”

“Thank you.
Well, we'd best be off. You know, this will be a record. Two perfect crimes in
one night. I'll have to claim the lion's share of points for the first,
though.”

“I can't argue
about that.” Kevin gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder.

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

“Clean as a
whistle,” Eve said as she studied Lucias's data. That either makes him a droid
or a ... what's that term Mavis uses? Dweebazoid. No school infractions, no
traffic violations. Following right along with the family tradition, too.”

“That's why
they're called family traditions,” Roarke pointed out. “What will ours be, I
wonder? Crime, of course, but which side of the spectrum?”

She spared him
a look. “He's got his own residence here in the city. I'm going to make time to
talk to him. He's rolling in money, so he's a hit there. He's got knowledge of
chemistry.”

“Attractive
young man,” Roarke commented, nodding toward the picture beside the written
data. “Young being the operative word. He's barely been out of
university a full year.”

“I'm checking
him out. And I'll use checking him out to see if it makes his grandfather a
little more forthcoming.”

“He pissed you
off.”

“That's
affirmative. And I'm going to piss him off right back when I get authority to
open the sealeds.”

“I can get
that data for you.”

“I've already
had you do an unauthorized and illegal computer block. Let's leave our black
marks to a minimum.”

“The block may
save a life. That's no black mark. And I can get you some of that sealed data
by perfectly legal means. A single 'link call to a source at Allegany who
worked on the project. If you want names to run, I'll get you names.”

“Just a call?”

“Very simple.”

“Then do it.”

“All right,
but it'll cost you.”

Because she
recognized the gleam in his eye, she narrowed her own. “Get out. I'm not paying
for information with sex.”

“Consider it
taking one for the team,” he suggested, and tumbled her into the sleep chair.

By the time
she'd paid up, her ears were ringing and every ounce of tension had melted out
of her body. It seemed her bones had melted along with it as she discovered
when she tried to stand.

She wore only
her boots and the diamond pendant he'd once given her.

“You know if
you hadn't become a cop, you might have had a future in porn vids. And I mean
that in the best possible way. Christ, Eve, you're a picture.”

“Don't even
think about trying for a second round. I want that data, pal.”

“A deal's a
deal.” He rose, fluidly, wearing nothing but his grin. “Why don't you order us
up a meal of some sort,” he suggested as he started for his office. “I'm
starving.”

She watched
him go. Talk about pictures, she thought. If she didn't consider herself
on duty, she'd have been tempted to sprint after him, tackle him, and sink her
teeth into his really superior ass.

Instead she'd
settle for an AutoChef burger.

She leaned
down, scooped up her clothes.

“Catch!”

She
straightened and, as her arms were full, took the robe he tossed her in the
face.

“Might as well
be comfortable,” he said. “And oh, darling? I could use a glass of wine.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A cheeseburger
wouldn't have been his first choice, particularly with the Savignon Blanc '55.
But it was Eve's show.

“Why didn't
you tell me about this guy before?”

He watched Eve
shake a blizzard of salt over her fries, and winced. “Had your blood pressure
checked lately?”

“Just answer
the question.”

“You had a lot
of irons in the fire, so I took this one. Stiles was bound to be more
cooperative with me than with you. As illustrated by the fact that after only
minimal grousing, he's digging through his files and his memory. You'll have
your data by the time we finish this delightfully adolescent meal. More onion
rings?”

“You trust
him?”

“I do, yes.
Stiles makes a career out of being irritable, but under the rough exterior is
an equally rough but honest interior. You'd like him.”

It was plain
Roarke did, and she trusted his instincts. “What I need is project staff who
got a little too involved with the experimentation. People who might have taken
it home with them. Their family, friends, associates.”

“And so I
explained. Relax, Lieutenant, or you'll give yourself indigestion.” He watched
her scarf up onion rings. “Though that's pretty much a given in any case.”

“You're just
sulking because I didn't pick out rack of lamb or something. The murders are
connected to the project. It just follows logic. You have to figure supply and
intent. You don't pick these particular illegals up on the street. Derivatives,
diluted clones, but not the pure goods.”

She lifted her
wineglass, studied the pale gold liquid. “Just like this stuff. You can't walk
into the corner liquor store, a twenty-four-seven and cop a bottle of this. You
can get cheap substitutes, inferior, what do you call them, labels, but for the
snooty stuff you need a high-end supplier and the wherewithal.”

“Or your own vineyard.”

“Or your own
vineyard,” she agreed. “You got that, you can drink it like water. He doesn't
settle for substitutes. He's better than that, deserves the very best. The best
illegals, the best wines, the best clothes. And the women of his choice. Just
another commodity.”

“He has the
means to indulge himself, in every vice. Isn't it probable he's worked his way
up to this ultimate indulgence?”

“Yeah, if you
go by percentages, probabilities of profiling. But there's more to it, because
there are two of them. Teamwork, competition, mutual dependence. The first one
fucked up. He hadn't worked his way up to killing yet, so he panicked. But that
upped the stakes. Second guy can't let his pal get ahead of him. He's got more
violence in him, and isn't afraid of seeing that part of himself. He enjoys it.
Then you bounce back to the first player, and he messes up again. He leaves her
alive. He's losing the game.”

“You're
dismissing multiple personalities?”

“Even if its
MPS, we're dealing with two. But I'm more inclined toward the simple route. Two
styles, two killers. I wonder if anybody on the project list had two sons.
Brothers maybe. It would make sense if... or childhood friends.” She shifted
her attention back to Roarke. “Guys who grew up together. That's like
brotherhood, isn't it?”

He thought of
Mick. “It is. More so in a way as you don't have the family dynamics, the
antagonisms, getting in the way. With Mick and Brian and the rest of us, we
were a family we created rather than one we'd been born into. It's a powerful
bond.”

“Okay, tell me
this -- from a species that does the majority of its thinking with its penis --
“

“I resent
that. I don't think with my penis more than twenty-five percent of the time.”

“Tell that to
somebody you didn't just nail in the sleep chair.”

“And I can
tell you it took very little thought. But your question is?”

“Guys'll bang
anything if they get the chance.”

“Yes, and
we're proud of it.”

“No offense.
That's just the way the machine works. But when they have a choice, a selection,
even a fantasy, they tend toward a certain type. Most commonly that fantasy or
type is based on a female figure that was or is important to the man. Either
the type resembles that figure in some way or opposes it.”

“Since I
assume in this case you're eliminating basic chemistry, emotion, and
relationship, I won't disagree. The female machine runs much the same way.”

“Yeah, that's
how he gets them. Molding himself into their fantasy. But I'm betting the women
he selects are looking for the type he is, or appears to be on the surface. He
doesn't have to change much. Why should he? It's his game. I'm going to run
some probabilities.”

Roarke heard
the signal from his office for incoming data. “Stiles came through. I'll
transfer that over for you.”

“Thanks.” She
glanced at her wrist unit. “Nine-fifteen,” she announced. “Nearly date time.”

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

Her name was
Melissa Kotter, and she was from Nebraska. A genuine farm girl who'd fled the
fields for the bright lights of the big city. She had hopes, as did thousands
of other young women who streamed into New York, of being an actress. A serious
actress, of course -- one who would remain true to her art, infusing new life
into the classic roles played by all the greats who'd trod the board before
her.

While she was
waiting to light up Broadway, she waited tables, went to auditions, and took
whatever work came her way. It was, in her opinion, the way all the great
artists began their careers.

At twenty-one,
she was full of optimism and innocence. And dreams. She waited tables with
tireless cheer, and her farm-fresh looks earned her as many tips as her speedy
service.

She was blonde,
blue-eyed, and delicate of build.

A sociable
creature, Melissa had made a number of friends. She was always eager for
friendships, conversation, experiences.

She adored New
York with the passion of a new lover, and in the six months she'd lived in the
city, her affection hadn't dimmed by a watt.

She'd told her
across-the-hall neighbor, Wanda, about her date that night. And had laughed off
her friend's concerns. The media reports about the murdered women didn't apply
to her. Hadn't Sebastian brought them up himself, hadn't he said he'd
understand completely if she didn't feel comfortable meeting him tonight?

As she'd told
Wanda, he'd hardly have brought the matter up if he was a dangerous individual.

He was a
wonderful man, intelligent, erudite, exciting. And so very different from all
the boys back home. Most of them hadn't known Chaucer from Chesterfield. But
Sebastian knew all about poetry and plays. He'd traveled all over the world,
had attended performances in all the great theaters.

She'd read his
e-mails over and over until she could recite them by heart. No one who could
write such lovely things could be anything but wonderful.

And he was
meeting her at Jean-Luc's, one of the most exclusive clubs in the city.

She made the
dress herself, patterning it after a gown worn by the actress Helena Grey when
she'd accepted her Tony the previous year. The deep midnight blue material was
synthetic rather than silk, but it had a lovely drape. With it she wore the
pearl earrings her grandmother had given her on her twenty-first birthday in
November. They looked almost real dripping from her lobes.

The shoes and
the bag had been snagged on sale at Macy's.

She did a
quick, laughing twirl. “How do I look?”

“You look mag,
Mel, but I wish you wouldn't go.”

“Stop being
such a worrywart, Wanda. Nothing's going to happen to me.”

Wanda bit her
lip. She looked at Melissa and saw a little woolly lamb who'd bah cheerfully as
she was led to the slaughter. “Maybe I'll call in sick, hang out here in your
place until you get home.”

“Don't be
silly. You need the money. Go on, go get ready for work.” Melissa draped an arm
around Wanda's shoulders and walked her to the door. “If it makes you feel
better I'll call you when I get back.”

“Promise.”

“Scout's
honor. I think I'm going to order a martini. I've always wanted to try one.
Which do you think is more sophisticated? Gin or vodka? Vodka,” she decided
before Wanda could weigh in. “A vodka martini, very dry, with a twist.”

“You call me,
the minute you get back. And don't you bring him up here, no matter what.”

“I won't.”
Melissa twirled herself to the stairs. “Wish me luck.”

“I do. Be
careful.”

Melissa dashed
down all three flights, feeling very glamorous. She called out greetings to
neighbors, struck a pose at the wolf whistle delivered by Mr. Tidings in 102.
When she rushed out on the sidewalk, her cheeks were flushed and rosy.

She thought
about taking a cab, but since she had more time than money thought it best to
take the subway uptown.

She joined the
hordes on the underground platform, humming to herself as she anticipated the
evening. She squeezed on the train and stood, propped up by bodies.

Crowds didn't
bother her; she thrived on them. If she hadn't been so busy writing the script
for her meeting with Sebastian, she'd have struck up any number of
conversations with her fellow passengers.

It was only
with one-to-one encounters with men she found herself shy and tongue-tied. But
she was sure, she was positive, she'd be neither with Sebastian.

It was as if
they were made for each other.

When the train
jerked to an abrupt halt, and the lights dimmed, she was tossed unceremoniously
against the burly black man wedged in beside her.

“Excuse me.”

“That's cool,
sister. Ain't enough to you to put a dent in.”

“I wonder
what's wrong.” She tried to see through people, over them in the greenish wash
of emergency lighting.

“Always some
mess with this uptown train. Don't know why they don't fix the sumbitch.” He
skimmed his gaze down her and up again. “You got you some date, doncha?”

“Yes. I hope
we're not delayed long or I'll be late. I hate being late.”

“Look like
you, guy's not gonna mind a wait.” His friendly face went hard and cold, and
sent Melissa's heart bounding to her throat. “Brother, you wanna take your
fingers off this lady's purse, or I'm gonna break 'em into little pieces.”

Melissa
jolted, snatched her purse around to press it to her belly. She glanced back
and caught a glimpse of the small man in a dark trench coat as he slithered
back into the jammed bodies.

“Oh. Thank
you! Sometimes I forget to be careful.”

“Don't pay to
forget. You keep that purse close.”

“Yes, I will.
Thank you again. I'm Melissa. Melissa Kotter.”

“Bruno Biggs.
They just call me Biggs ... 'cause I am.”

During the
ten-minute delay, she chatted with him. She learned he worked in construction,
had a wife named Ritz and a baby boy they called B.J. for Bruno, Junior. By the
time they'd reached her stop, she'd given him the name of the restaurant where
she worked and had invited him to bring his family in for dinner. As people
gushed off the train, she waved and let herself be swept along by the current.

Bruno saw her
trying to hurry along, her purse once again trailing behind her.

He shook his
head and muscled his way off just before the doors closed.

Melissa broke
free of the crowd and raced up the stairs. She was going to be late unless she
ran the last three blocks. She made a dash for the corner. Something hit her
from behind, low on the back, and sent her pitching forward. The strap of her
purse snapped clean. She managed one short scream as she tumbled off the curb.
There were shrieking brakes, shouts, then a bright, blinding pain as she hit
the street.

She heard
something else snap.

“Ms. Kotter?
Melissa.” Bruno bent over her. “God almighty, sister, I thought you'd get
yourself run over. Got this back for you.” He shook her purse.

“I -- I forgot
to be careful.”

“Okay now,
okay. You need the MTs? How bad you hurt?”

“I don't know
... my arm.”

She'd broken
the arm. And saved her life.

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

“Eight hundred
and sixty-eight names.” Eve squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Just couldn't be
simple.”

“That doesn't
include building maintenance, or straight clerical.”

“This will do
for now. We'll focus on the ones your source lists as being reprimanded for
recreational use, and those he remembers being named in any lawsuits. But we
need to work with all of them. I need to separate them out -- medical,
administration, e-drones, lab techs. Divide them by age groups. Those with
families, and the age of their children. Another list of any who were
terminated during the project run.”

She looked up
at him, the slightest glint in her eye.

“Have I just
been demoted to e-drone?”

“You could do
it faster.”

“Unquestionably,
but -- “

“Yeah, yeah,
it'll cost me. Pervert.” She considered, brightened. “Tell you what. We'll do a
trade. You give me a hand with this, and I'll consult with you on whatever
business deal you're currently wheeling.”

He paled a
little. “Darling, that's so sweet of you. I couldn't possibly infringe on your
valuable time.”

“Coward.”

“You bet.”

“Come on, give
me a shot. What have you got cooking?”

“I've a number
of pots simmering just now.” He dipped his hands in his pockets and tried to
think which project or negotiation currently on his plate she could poke into
with the least possible damage.

Her desk 'link
beeped.

“Saved, so to
speak, by the bell.”

“We'll get
back to this,” she warned him.

“I sincerely
hope not.”

“Dallas.”

“Lieutenant
Dallas? Stefanie Finch. You've been trying to reach me?”

“That's right.
Where are you located?”

“Just got back
to New York. Had the last couple runs cancelled. What can I do for you?”

“We need to
have a conversation, Ms. Finch. In person. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Hey, listen.
I just walked in the door. Why don't you tell me what this is about?”

“Twenty
minutes,” Eve repeated. “Stay available.”

She cut
Stefanie off on an oath, snagged her weapon harness. “You happen to own
Inter-Commuter Air?”

He was
scanning the data on-screen and didn't look over. “No. Their equipment's old
and will cost ten to fifteen hundred million to replace and/or repair. They're
operating in the red, and have been for the last three years. Poor customer
service record that's heading for a PR nightmare. They'll be finished in a
year, eighteen months on the outside.” He glanced over now. “Then I'll buy
them.”

“You wait till
they roll over dead.” She pursed her lips. “Good plan, but it nixes the idea of
taking you along so you can put the elbow on an employee. I'll tag Peabody. The
uniform's always a nice touch.”

“Agreed, and
so's that robe. But you might want to put your boots back on.”

She frowned
down at herself. “Shit.” She grabbed the boots and trotted out. “See you
later.”

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

Stefanie
didn't pretend to be pleased. She opened the door and led with a scowl. “ID,”
she snapped.

Eve flipped
open her badge, holding it out while Stefanie took a good, long look. “I've
heard about you. The cop who hooked Roarke. Nice job.”

“Gee, thanks.
I'll let him know you said so.”

Stefanie
merely jerked a thumb toward Peabody. “What's with the uniform?”

“My aide. Do
we come in, Stefanie, or do we discuss this in the hallway?”

Stefanie
stepped back, closed the door behind them. “I just had two lucrative runs
cancelled, my union rep is talking strike, which is going to put me in a bind.
The shuttle they stuck me with should've been in the fucking scrap heap, and my
gut's telling me I could be out of a job within the year.”

“He never
misses,” Eve muttered.

“I've got a
cop hounding me to Europe and back, so I'm in a pisser of a mood, Lieutenant.
If this is about my bastard ex, I've got one thing to say: He's not my
problem.”

“I'm not here
about your bastard ex. You've been corresponding, via e-mail, with an
individual who calls himself Wordsworth.”

“How do you
know? E-mail's private.”

“The
individual who calls himself Wordsworth is a suspect in two murders and one
attempted murder. Now, do you want to do a dance about the violation of
cyber-privacy?”

“You've got to
be kidding me.”

“Peabody, look
at my face. Is this my jokey face?”

“No, sir,
Lieutenant.”

“Now that
we've cleared that up, why don't we sit down?”

“I've got a
date with him tomorrow afternoon,” Stefanie said, and hugged her arms as if
chilled. “When my runs were cancelled, I did some e-mail from the pilot's
lounge at Heathrow. He suggested we get together tomorrow for a picnic in
Greenpeace Park.”

“What time?”

“One o'clock.”

He's
breaking pattern, Eve thought. Upping
the stakes again. “Sit down, Stefanie.”

“You're sure
about this.” Stefanie sat, stared up at Eve. “Yeah, you're sure. I bet that's
your dead-certain face. Well, I'm embarrassed and I feel like the world's
biggest idiot.”

“And you're
alive,” Eve told her. “I'm going to keep you that way. Describe Wordsworth for
me.”

“Physically, I
don't have a clue. He's an art dealer. International. Digs opera, ballet, poetry.
I was looking for some class. My ex was an amoeba. If it wasn't Arena Ball it
wasn't worth talking about. I supported the worthless bastard the last six
months we were together. Bailed him out twice on drunk and disorderlies, then
he ...”

She trailed off.
“Apparently, I still have issues. Point is, I was looking for his opposite.
Somebody with some polish who could do more than grunt when he wanted another
beer. I guess I was looking for a little romance.”

“And he said
all the right things.”

“Bingo. If
it's too good to be true, it's probably a big, fat lie. Looks like I forgot
that motto. But a picnic in the park, middle of the damn day, you'd think that
would be safe. I can handle myself,” she added. “I bench-press one twenty. I'm
a fifth degree black belt. I'm nobody's victim. No way he'd take me down.”

Eve sized her
up and agreed. Under most conditions, the woman could probably handle herself
just fine. “He plans to drug you, with a very potent sexual illegal. You'd
bring him back here because you'd think it's your call. He'd light candles, put
on music, give you more laced wine. He'd sprinkle pink rose petals on the bed.”

“Bullshit.”
But she'd gone white. “That's bullshit.”

“You wouldn't
think of it as rape while it happened. You'd do everything he told you to do.
When he gave you the second drug, you'd lap it right up for him. While your
system overloaded, your heart would give out; you wouldn't even know you're
dead.”

“You want to
scare me?” Stefanie got to her feet, paced. “You're doing a damn good job.”

“That's right.
I want to scare you. That's what he plans, that's what might have happened
tomorrow afternoon. But it's not going to happen because you're going to do
exactly what I tell you.”

Stefanie
lowered into a chair again. “He doesn't know where I live. Tell me he doesn't
know where I live.”

“He probably
does. He's spent some time watching you. Get any flowers lately?”

“Oh Jesus.
Pink roses. The son of a bitch sent me pink roses yesterday. In my quarters in
London. I hauled them home with me. They're in the bedroom.”

“Would you
like me to dispose of them for you, Pilot Finch?” Peabody asked.

“Dump them in
the recycler?” Stefanie rubbed her hands over her face. “I'm shaking. I piloted
that death trap across the Atlantic, and I'm sitting here shaking. I was
feeling pretty pumped about meeting him. Imagined I'd start this really nice,
satisfying relationship. The bastard ex is looking better all the time.”

“You're not
going to speak or contact anyone about this. As far as Wordsworth is concerned,
you're meeting him tomorrow. Were there any plans to confirm the date?”

“Only to
cancel. I was to let him know by noon if I had to cancel.”

“Stand up a
minute.”

When Stefanie
obeyed, Eve rose as well, circled her, judged build, height. “Yeah, two can
play the disguise game. When we're done here, you can play it two ways. You can
pack what you need and I'll arrange to have you put in a safe house tonight. Or
if you want to stay here, I'll have a couple of cops stay over with you. Either
way, you'll sleep better.”

“Oh yeah, I'll
sleep like a baby tonight.”

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

Eve wasn't the
only one putting in overtime. McNab was on a mission of his own. He'd fueled
himself up for it with two bottles of home brew, which were currently burning
at his stomach lining. He wasn't drunk. He'd stopped short of getting drunk.
Because he wanted to be clearheaded when he kicked Charles Monroe's pansy ass.

Unaware he'd
become the target of a jealous and slightly queasy e-detective, Charles nibbled
on Louise's fingers. They were sharing a late supper in his apartment.

“I appreciate
you agreeing to start the evening so late.”

“We both have
odd schedules. It's wonderful wine.” She sipped. “Wonderful food. And I like
your home very much. More than a restaurant.”

“I wanted you to
myself. I've wanted you to myself all day.”

“I told you I
haven't had much luck with relationships, Charles.” She rose to wander to the
windows. “I'm single-minded, driven, and haven't given any relationship I've
been in the attention it needs. Deserves.”

“I think your
luck's about to change.” He turned her to face him. “I know mine has. Louise.”
He lowered his head, skimmed his lips lightly over hers, once, then twice,
drawing her in. He circled her into a dance, deepening the kiss when her arms
came around him. Bringing her closer when she trembled.

“Come to bed
with me,” he whispered. “Let me touch you.”

Her head fell
back as his mouth trailed along her throat. “Wait. Just... wait. Charles.” She
eased back. “I've thought about this. I spent entirely too much time thinking
about this today, and last night. Since I first saw you. Part of my problem is
over-thinking things.”

She stepped
away, needing a little distance. “There's such a pull. I haven't felt a pull
like this ... ever,” she managed. “But I'm not going to bed with you. I can't.”

He kept his
eyes on hers, nodded slowly. “I understand. It's difficult for you to accept
the idea of being intimate with me.”

“Difficult,”
she said with a half laugh. “No, I wouldn't say difficult.”

“You don't need
to explain. I know what I am.”

She shook her
head. “What you are?”

“Licensed
companions don't generally have a lot of luck with personal relationships
either. Not real ones in any case.”

“I'm sorry.”
She held up a hand. “You think I won't have sex with you because you're a
professional? Charles, that insults both of us.”

He walked back
to the table, picked up his wineglass. “I'm confused.”

“I don't want
to sleep with you now because it's happening too fast. Because I think what I'm
feeling for you goes deeper than that, and I'd like a chance to find out
before... I'd just like to slow down a bit. I'd like to spend more time getting
to know each other. I wouldn't be here now if what you did for a living was a
problem for me. And if you think I'm so petty and narrow-minded that I'd -- “

“I could fall
in love with you.”

It stopped her
short, stole her breath, just the quiet way he said it. “I know. Oh God, I
know. Me, too. It scares me a little.”

“Good, because
it scares me a lot.” He crossed back to her, lifted her hand. “We'll slow
down.” Kissed it. Then her wrist. Drawing her in again, he brushed his lips
over her temple, her cheeks.

Her pulse
spiked. “This is slowing down?”

“We won't go
any faster than you want.” He tipped her face back and smiled. “Trust me, I'm a
professional.”

And while she
laughed, the buzzer sounded.

“Give me ten
seconds to get rid of whoever that is. And remember my place.”

When he opened
the door, McNab shoved him back a step. “Okay, you son of a bitch. We're going
a round.”

“Detective --
“

“Who the hell
do you think you are?” McNab shoved him again. “You think you can treat her
that way? Rub your next skirt right in her face?”

“Detective,
you don't want to lay hands on me again.”

“Oh yeah?” Maybe
the second bottle hadn't been such a good idea, he thought vaguely, but
gamely lifted his fists. “Let's try these instead.”

“Detective
McNab.” Calmly, Louise stepped between them. “You're obviously upset. Maybe you
should sit down.”

“Dr. Dimatto,”
Flustered, McNab lowered his fists. “I didn't see you over there.”

“Charles, why
don't you make some coffee. Ian ... it's Ian, isn't it? Let's sit down.”

“Beg your
pardon, but I don't want any goddamn coffee and I don't want to sit down. I
came to kick his ass.” He jabbed a finger at Charles over her shoulder. “I'm
sorry you're in the middle. You're a nice woman. But I've got business with
this son of a bitch.”

“I'm assuming
this has to do with Delia.”

As Charles
stepped away from Louise, McNab rounded on him. “Damn right. You think because
you take her to the fucking opera and fancy restaurants you've got a right to
toss her over when something more interesting comes along?”

“No, I don't.
Delia means a great deal to me.”

Literally
seeing red, McNab swung out. His punch found its target, had Charles's head
snapping back. He followed through with a short-armed jab to the belly before
Charles recovered enough to fight back.

While they
circled each other, ramming fists, spilling blood, Louise fled the room. They
were rolling on the floor, in a sweaty, grunting heap when she came back. And
threw a full bucket of ice water over them.

“That's just
about enough.” She slammed the bucket down, slapped her hands on her hips as
both of them gaped up at her. “You should be ashamed. Both of you. Fighting
over a woman like she was a juicy piece of meat. If either of you think Peabody
would appreciate this, you're very much mistaken. Now, on your feet.”

“He's got no
right to hurt her,” McNab began.

“I wouldn't
hurt Delia for anything in the world. And if I have, I'll do everything I can
to make it up to her.” Charles scooped back his dripping hair. He was getting
the picture now. “For Christ's sake, you moron, have you told her you're in love
with her?”

“Who said I
was?” His bruised face went sheet white. “I'm just looking out for ... shut up.
She wants to roll with you when you're working other skirts, that's her
business. But she's not a job.” He pointed at Louise.

“That's right.
She's not.”

“And nobody
juggles Peabody that way.”

“Look,
obviously you're under the impression that Delia and I have been -- “

“It just
happened, Ian.” Louise interrupted quickly, shot Charles a warning look. “It
wasn't planned. I'm sorry if I'm responsible for this.”

“I'm not
blaming you.”

“I'm as much
to blame. Charles and I... we want a chance to make something together. Can you
understand?”

“So Peabody's
just out of the picture.”

“I'm sorry.”
As the light dawned, Charles got to his feet. “I hope she'll understand. I hope
we can still be friends. She's a wonderful woman. More than I deserve.”

“You got that
part right, pal.”

Drenched,
aching, and more than a little sick, McNab managed to get up. “You'd better
find a way to make it right with her.”

“I will. You
have my word. Let me get you a towel.”

“I don't need
a damn towel.”

“Then try a
piece of advice instead. You've got a clear path. Try not to stumble off of
it.”

“Yeah, right.”
He strode out, his exit hampered a bit by squeaking airboots.

“Well.”
Charles blew out a breath. “That was entertaining.”

“Hold still,”
Louise ordered. “Your lip's bleeding.”

As she dabbed
at it with a napkin, Charles angled his head. “I'm soaking wet, too.”

“Yes, you
are.”

“I think he
bruised my ribs.”

“I'll take a
look. Come on. Let's get you out of those wet clothes and patch you up. This
time,” she said, “I'm the professional.”

“I love
playing doctor. Louise.” He stopped her, made her turn and look at him. “Delia
and I -- She's really very special to me. But we were never lovers.”

“Yes, I
figured that out.” She patted her fingers gently on his bruised cheek. “I can't
believe you were about to tell Ian.”

“Could be my
brain was still rattled from having his bare-knuckled fist slammed into my
face. We're friends,” he added. “Delia's the best friend I've ever had.”

“And you've
just done her a lovely favor. Come on now, come with Dr. Louise.” She slipped
an arm around his waist. “It's sweet, isn't it, the way he leapt to defend
her.”

“Sweet.”
Charles wiggled his jaw, and saw a few stars. “He thinks I'm sleeping with her,
and that pisses him off. Then he thinks I've stopped sleeping with her, and it
pisses him off even more, so he comes over here and punches me in the face.
Yes, very sweet.”

“It's all
point of view. Now, take off your clothes. First house call's free.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Eve stood on
the sidewalk outside Stefanie Finch's apartment building, took a moment to sort
through her thoughts. Summer was coming. She could feel the weight of it on the
air. “Does it feel like rain to you, Peabody?”

Peabody took a
sniff. “No, sir. Humidity's coming in. It's likely to be hot and heavy
tomorrow.”

“In more ways
than one. But I don't want a storm to muck things up.”

“Dallas, if we
move in on him tomorrow without using bait, we can't be sure of getting him on
anything but illegals possession, and that's if he's carrying.”

“He'll be
carrying. And we've got bait.”

Peabody
glanced back up at the building. “You didn't say anything to her about keeping
the date.”

“She won't be
keeping it. I will.”

“You?” With a
shake of her head, Peabody gave Eve a measuring glance. “If he's sticking to
pattern we have to figure he knows what she looks like. And you don't look like
her. You're close to the same height, but coloring's different, features are different.
And she's, well, bustier. No offense.”

“By one
tomorrow, I'll look enough like her to pass. I'm calling Mavis.”

“Oh.” Peabody
brightened. “Oh, that's iced.”

“Easy for you
to say. You won't have to listen to lectures from her and Trina on why I haven't
had my eyebrows shaped lately, or why I haven't used the butt cream or
whatever. And I'll probably have to agree to a full treatment after the op.”
This was said with undisguised bitterness. “I know how they work.”

“You're a true
soldier, sir, sacrificing yourself for the cause.”

“Wipe that
smile off your face, Officer.”

“Wiping, sir.”

“We've got.
..” She turned her wrist to check the time. “Fourteen hours to put this
together. Go home, get some sleep. I want you at my home office at oh six
hundred. Wear soft clothes. Contact Feeney and McNab, bring them up to date.
I'll have to tag the commander at home.” She blew out a breath. “I bet his wife
answers.”

Eve slid
behind the wheel of her vehicle, switched on the autopilot and set it for home.
The engine fired, and died.

She sat back,
glared at the console. “This is just not right. I'm a ranked officer.” She
punctuated this by smacking the dash with the heel of her hand. “I deserve a
goddamn reliable ride. Computer, run the stinking diagnostic on autopilot.”

Unauthorized
use of this vehicle is an unlawful act punishable by up to a five year
imprisonment and a monetary fine of five-thousand USD. If you are not
authorized to use this vehicle, please exit same immediately. If you have
authorization, identify yourself. Failure to do so will automatically lock all
exists and notify the nearest patrol vehicle.

A red haze
drifted over her vision. “You want me to identify myself? I'll identify myself,
you demon from hell. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Vehicle authorization code
Zero-Five-Zero-Six-One-Charlie. I am armed and I am dangerous, and in about
five seconds I'm going to draw my weapon and fry every one of your circuits.”

Any attempt
at vandalism on this vehicle will result in --

“Shut up, shut
up, shut up, and ran the fucking ID.”

Processing
... Your identification and codes are correct, Dallas, Lientenant Eve

“Dandy keen,
now run the damn diagnostic.”

Working ...
Auto-navigation on this vehicle is experiencing systemic problems. Do you wish
to notify Maintenance at this time?

“I wish to
blow Maintenance and everyone in it to holy hell. And don't tell me that will
result in fine and/or imprisonment because it'd be worth it. Re-engage manual.”

The engine
rumbled on, and the air conditioning whirled, filling the cockpit with frigid
air. “Disengage climate control.”

Working ...
Climate control is experiencing systemic problems. Do you wish to notify
Maintenance at this time?

“Oh, fuck
you,” Eve said and rolled down all windows.

She shot away
from the curb, and unwilling to trust the in-dash 'link, pulled out her own.

Mrs. Whitney
answered, looking perfectly groomed and very annoyed.

“I'm sorry to
disturb you at home, Mrs. Whitney, but I need to speak with the commander.”

“It's after
eleven o'clock, Lieutenant. Can't this wait until morning?”

“No, ma'am, it
can't.”

“One moment,”
she snapped, and switched Eve to wait mode, complete with canned music. Eve
listened to violins and flutes as she drove one-handed through a snarl of
traffic.

“Whitney.”

“I'm sorry to
call you at home, Commander, but there's been a break in the investigation.”

“I'm always
ready to hear good news.”

“I've just
come from questioning Stefanie Finch. She has a date with the suspect tomorrow
at thirteen hundred, Greenpeace Park.”

“He's moved to
days?”

“It fits the
profile, sir. Upping the risk. Finch is cooperating. She's agreed to remain
inside her residence. I have two uniforms with her, round the clock. Unless the
suspect hears from her by noon tomorrow, he'll keep the date. I'm making
arrangements to go in her place.”

“Is there a
physical resemblance?”

“We're close
in height and build. I'm making arrangements to take care of the rest. I've got
more data to study, but I can maintain the cover until he gives me the drug. He
puts it in my hand, Commander, and we sew him up.”

“What do you
need?”

“I'd like six
cops, soft clothes, in addition to my team, stationed at strategic areas. I'll
go over diagrams tonight and determine placement. I'll go in wired. I'll need
Feeney and the e-man of his choice in a surveillance vehicle. Additional
vehicular and air backup is advisable, in case he gets past me. I'd like to
select the rest of the team and brief them from my home office by oh eight
hundred hours. I want everyone in place by eleven.”

“You're
cleared. Pick your men, and keep me updated. What the hell is that noise?”

“Ah, my
climate control's dinky, sir.”

“Well, notify
Maintenance.”

She heard her
own teeth grind. “Yes, sir.”

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

When she got
home, she marched through her office and into Roarke's.

“Can you get
your hands on any explosives?”

He glanced up
from his work, picked up the brandy snifter that sat at his elbow. “Probably.
What would you like?”

“Anything that
will blow that insult, that abomination parked out front into a million tiny
little pieces that can never be put back together again.”

“Ah.” He
swirled brandy, sipped. “Vehicular troubles again, Lieutenant?”

“Is that a
smirk?” The red haze was gathering again. “Is that a smirk on your face?
Because if it is ...” She shoved up her sleeves.

“Mmm,
violence. You know how that arouses me.”

She managed a
short scream and yanked at her own hair.

“Darling Eve,
why don't you let some of my mechanics deal with it? Or better yet, take
whatever suits your needs out of the garage.”

“Because
that's like giving up. Those bastards in Maintenance aren't going to beat me.”
She huffed out a breath. “Anyway. Mavis and Trina are coming over. Probably
Leonardo, too. They're spending the night.”

“Are we having
a pajama party? Will there be pillow fights?”

“You're just a
laugh a minute. You want an update or do you want to fantasize about scantily
clad women bashing each other with pillows?”

His grin was
quick and wicked. “Guess.”

She dropped
into a chair and filled him in.

He picked up
the cat as she spoke, sat stroking Galahad, watching her. He knew she was doing
more than bringing him up to speed. She was refining, checking for holes,
firming up the operation as she talked it through. They both knew no matter how
meticulously planned the operation, it only took one variable to upset the
balance.

“Some men,” he
said when she'd finished, “lesser men, might object to having their wife picnic
in the park with another man.”

“I'll bring
you back some potato salad.”

“That's my
girl. You said Feeney will pick his man inside the surveillance vehicle. I
believe he could be persuaded to select an expert consultant, civilian.”

The circle her
mind was taking came to an abrupt halt, then backtracked. “This is an NYPSD op,
and there's no need for you to be there. You've got your own work.”

“I do, yes,
but I so enjoy watching you do yours.” He gave the cat's ears a scratch with
those long, clever fingers that had Galahad purring in pleasure. “Why don't we
let Feeney decide?”

“No bribery.”

His eyebrows
shot up in amazement. “Really, Lieutenant, you wound me. If I were easily
offended, I might not tell you I've separated, cross-filed, and indexed your
data.”

“Yeah? You're
pretty handy to have around. Let's have a look.” She got up to walk around to
his side of the console. He tapped a single key, then setting the cat down,
tugged her onto his lap.

“No funny
stuff,” she ordered.

“Who's
laughing?” He nipped her earlobe. “You see on-screen three of those project
personnel with male children who would now be between the ages of twenty and
thirty-five. That gives you twenty-eight hits. Adding male siblings and
grandchildren, secondary dependents in that same age bracket garners another
fifteen.”

“So that's,
what, forty-three possibles. That's workable.”

“However ...”
He kissed the nape of her neck. “Refining and recalculating using those
personnel who were reprimanded, cited, terminated or named in civil suits, we
decrease those possibles to eighteen. I assumed you'd want to start with them.
Screen four.”

“Keep this up,
the chief's going to offer you a permanent position on the force.”

“Now you're
trying to scare me, but I'm too strong for that.”

“Knock out the
over-thirties. I'm betting he's younger than that.”

He nuzzled her
neck and did it manually. “Down to eight.”

“Yeah. We
start with them. Computer, run background check, all data, on individuals
listed on screen four.”

Working ...

“It'll take a
minute,” Roarke told her and worked his way from neck to jaw.

“You're not
authorized to attempt to seduce the primary investigator at this time.”

“I've vast
experience in breaking the law.” He found her mouth, sank in.

“Wow. They
always look so hot”

Mavis
Freestone stood in the doorway in four-inch platform boots that rode up to her
crotch in shiny, eye-watering pink. Her hair, tinted to match, seemed to burst
out of her head in an explosive topknot. With it, she wore a skimmer in
dizzying swirls of pink and blue that fluttered down to meet the top of the
boots.

She beamed
smiles set off by sparkling face studs fixed to the corners of her mouth.

Beside her
Trina, her own hair in a foot-high ebony mountain, snorted. “If this is part of
the fringe bennies on cop work, I want a badge.”

Eve's fingers
dug reflexively into Roarke's arm. “Don't leave me,” she whispered. “Whatever
you do, don't leave me.”

“Be strong.
Good evening, ladies.”

“Leonardo's
bopping over later. He had stuff. Summerset said to come right up.” Mavis
danced into the room. “We gave thumbs-up to snacks. We've got all kinds of
goodies to try out on you, Dallas. This is so ultra mag.”

Eve's stomach
turned. “Whoopee.”

“Where do you
want me to set up?” Trina asked and was already studying Eve in a way that made
the kick-ass cop want to whimper like a baby.

“In my office.
This is an official consult, not a personal treatment.”

“Whatever.”
Trina blew an enormous purple bubble, snapped the gum back. “Show me what you
want to look like, and I'll make it happen.”

In her office,
Eve put Stefanie Finch's official ID photo on-screen and managed not to yelp
when Trina took her face in her hands. Hands with inch-long sapphire nails.

“Mm-hmm. You
know, lip dye isn't a crime in this state. You ought to try it.”

“I've been
kind of busy.”

“You're always
kind of busy. You're not using the eye gel I gave you. You can't find a minute
twice a day for eye gel? You want bags and wrinkles? You got the finest piece
of man-candy on and off planet, and you want him looking at your face with bags
and wrinkles? What are you going to do when he dumps you for a woman who takes
time to maintain her face?”

“Kill him.”

That made
Trina laugh and sent the little sapphire she had centered on her left eyeteeth
winking. “Easier to use the gel. I need a photo of you, put it split screen
with the image you want. I need to run some morph programs before we start
playing with your face.”

“Sure.”
Grabbing the reprieve, Eve went to her computer.

“Cocktail
meatballs! Frigid!” Mavis snagged one from the tray Summerset carried in.
“Summerset, you're the summit.”

His face
transformed. It always surprised Eve that he could smile and his face not crack
to pieces. “Enjoy. If you'd like anything else, just let me know. And the
AutoChef has been fully restocked.”

“You ought to
stay and watch.” Mavis speared a second meatball. “We're going to make Dallas
into someone else.”

“That,”
Summerset said with his smile going thin and sour as a lemon slice when he
glanced toward Eve, “is the answer to a prayer. And while tempting, I'll leave
you to your work.”

“He's such a
kidder,” Mavis said when he walked out.

“Oh yeah, he
really cracks me up. There's your image,” Eve told Trina. “I've got to check
some data in the other room. Just let me know when you're ready for me.”

She went back
into Roarke and was met with a cup of coffee. “Though I imagine you could use a
stiff drink, I assumed you'd opt for coffee.”

“Thanks. She's
got three cases, three, filled with her hideous devices of torture.” She took a
bracing gulp of coffee. “I should put in for hazardous duty pay for this.” She
turned toward the wall screen. “Let's see who we've got.”

She leaned
back on Roarke's desk and studied the images and data, one by one.

Doctors,
lawyers, students, engineers, she mused. She earmarked one not currently
employed with a minor illegals offense on his record.

“He's not a
drone,” she said, half to herself. “Not somebody who's pulling an eight-hour
shift. He needs time for his hobby and he's got money. He's a professional or
he's just living on his portfolio. Whoa, wait. Computer, magnify current
photographic image.”

She stepped
closer to the screen as the face filled it. And stared into Kevin Morano's
eyes. “This one rings with me. Yeah, I know those eyes. Kevin. Yeah, there you
are, Kevin. Let's see ... So Mama worked on the project. No father listed. She
was a PR exec. Owns her own firm now. London based, with offices in New York,
Paris, and Milan. He's an only child, and was born thirteen months after the
project got off the ground. Interesting. Really interesting how a PR exec files
a sexual harassment suit, drops it again within six weeks, agrees to have the
records sealed. And walks away with a kid and enough money to start an
international firm.”

She glanced
back at Roarke. “Woman who runs her own public relations firm with that scope,
she'd probably need a pretty slick image. Polished, sophisticated.”

“It follows.”

“Woman has a
kid, then after a little scandal in the workplace heads off here and there
establishing herself an international company.”

“The payoff
from McNamara and company must have been considerable.”

Eve nodded.
“But why'd she go through with the pregnancy? Why have the kid?”

“Perhaps she
wanted a child.”

“What for?
Look at his schooling. She started him full-time at three. All private
facilities. Boarding schools. And you can bet your ass someone else was doing
the baby thing for the first three years. She didn't found that company while
she was changing diapers and carting a kid around.”

“Some parents
have been known to,” Roarke pointed out.

“Beats me how.
But if she was into the mother thing, she wouldn't have shipped him off when he
was still sucking his thumb.”

“I tend to
agree with you, though our experience in this particular area's limited. If I
were to speculate, I'd wonder if the payoff wasn't linked to her going through
with the pregnancy.”

“Buy her off,
buy the kid,” Eve surmised. “It's a continuation of the project in a way.
Long-term results. I'm going to have a really fascinating talk with McNamara
tomorrow. Look at Morano's educational scope. Very heavy on the computer tech
studies. It fits. He's our compu-geek. I need the image from the security
discs, Moniqua Cline's file.”

Behind her,
Roarke did the transfer and display, split screen.

“You got a
morph program on there?”

“Yes. I know
what you want -- one minute.” Anticipating her, Roarke sat again, went to work.
He started with the hair, copying the killer's bronze mane onto Kevin's
unobtrusive brown. He altered the shape of the face, defining cheekbones,
lengthening the jaw. Then deepened the skin tone to a sun-washed bronze.

“Magic,” Eve
noted as the two images mirrored each other. “Won't hold up in court.
Lawyers'll tear morph ID to shreds. Even with Moniqua testifying about the
name, they can wiggle. She was seriously drugged at the time and so on. But
it's him. The eyes are the same. He changed the color, but he couldn't change
what's in them. Because what's in them is nothing. Nothing at all. Copy and
save imagery. Morano, Kevin, data back on the screen. Who are you, Kevin?”

Morano,
Kevin, DOB 4 april, 2037. Hair brown. Eyes blue. Height five foot eleven
inches. Weight one hundred fifty. Current residences: New York City, London,
England. Employment: Freelance Computer Programmer. Education: Eastbridge Early
Childhood Preparatory. Mansville Preparatory. Advanced Education: Harvard
Technology. Graduated, summa cum laude, 2058. No siblings. Marital status:
single. No criminal record.

“He's
twenty-two,” she stated. “He's only twenty-two. And so is McNamara's grandson,
who also went to Eastbridge, Mansville Prep, then on to Harvard Medical.
Graduated summa cum laude in 2058. No siblings,” she added. “But I bet under
the skin, Kevin is his brother. Give me his data, with image.”

“Dallas?”
Mavis peeked in the doorway. “We're set in here.”

“Hold it.” Eve
held up a hand as Lucias's data rolled on-screen. “Nearly the same height and
weight, too. Give me the image from Grace Lutz's -- “

“I'm ahead of
you,” Roarke told her.

“He's better
at it,” she said as the images ran side by side. “Better at hiding what's
behind his eyes. Morph him. It doesn't show on him the same way. He's smarter,
more controlled, more sure of himself. He'd be the dominant.”

When Trina
came to the door. Mavis shushed her. “She's working. Frigid to watch.”

“I can turn
Kevin. Oh yeah, I scoop him up tomorrow, lock him into Interview, squeeze his
balls till they turn purple. He'll roll on his buddy.”

She paced
back, studied the faces, considered. “Maybe I can fast-talk my way into a
search and seize tonight, take them both, take them by surprise. But if they
don't have the lab on premises, if they don't do any of their work in-house,
they could get rid of a lot of evidence before I track it down.”

“You have DNA
from two of the victims,” Roarke reminded her.

“Can't force
them to give DNA samples unless I charge them, can't charge them with what I've
got. If I slide under and get prints or DNA without authorization, I lose them
in court. I'm not losing them. We wait till tomorrow,” she decided. “Then we
close them down.”

“Isn't she the
ult?” Mavis asked Trina.

“Yeah, and
she'd better get her ultimate butt in the chair.”

Eve turned,
and the eyes that had been flat and cool showed hints of fear. “This is just,
you know, practice. And it's all temporary. You don't do anything permanent to
me.”

“Right. Strip
off the shirt. You need bigger tits.”

“Oh God.”

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

While Eve was
getting a temporary breast enhancement, Peabody was winding down with a bowl of
frozen non-dairy dessert some marketing whiz had named Iced Delight. Drenched in
chocolate-substitute syrup, it wasn't half bad. Or so Peabody decided as she
scraped the bottom of the bowl.

She washed the
bowl so that it wouldn't be sitting there in the morning to remind her she had
absolutely no willpower. When she heard the knock on her door she was about to
turn off the entertainment screen and head to bed.

If it was one
of her neighbors again, with a complaint about noise from another apartment,
she was telling them to call a cop. She was off duty, damn it, and needed the
six hours' sleep she had coming.

A peek in the
security screen made her gasp in surprise. She unlocked the door, pulled it
open, and stared at McNab. His lip was swollen, his right eye boasted an
impressive shiner. And he was wet.

“What the hell
happened to you?”

“I had an
incident,” he snapped. “I want to come in.”

“I tried to
reach you. You've got your 'links on message only.”

“I was busy. I
was off duty. Goddamn it.”

“Okay, okay.”
She stepped back before he could plow into her. “We're on at oh six hundred. We
caught a break earlier tonight. We've got an op going tomorrow. Dallas -- “

“I don't want
to hear about it now, okay? I can hear about the damn op tomorrow.”

“Suit
yourself.” A bit miffed, she shut the door. “Your boots are squeaking.”

“What, I don't
have ears? I can't hear them squeaking?”

“What crawled
up your ass and nested?” She sniffed the air. “You reek. What've you been
drinking?”

“Whatever I
want. Would you get off my back?”

“Look, you're
the one who came to my door bunged up, wet, and smelling like the floor of a
bar. I was on my way to bed. I've got to get some sleep.”

“Fine, go to
bed. I don't know why I came here anyway.” He stalked to the door, pulled it
open. Slammed it shut again. “I went by Monroe's. We got into it.”

“What do you
mean you ...” she stammered. “You had a fight with Charles? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe you
don't think we've got anything going on, but you're wrong. That's it, you're
wrong. And I see him pushing Dr. Blonde in your face, it pisses me off. Best
thing could happen to you, in my opinion, but I didn't like the way he tossed
you over.”

“Tossed me
over,” she repeated, dumbfounded.

“You break up
with somebody, you do it square. He's going to apologize.”

“He's going to
apologize?”

“What are you,
an echo?”

She had to
sit. “Charles blackened your eye and split your lip?”

“He got in a
couple of shots.” Not to mention the gut punch that had him heaving up the
homemade brew in the gutter like a common brew head. “His face isn't so perfect
tonight either.”

“Why are you
all wet?”

“Dishy Dimatto
was with him. She dumped a bucket of water on us.” He shoved his hands in his
damp pockets and stomped around the room on his squeaky boots. “I'd've taken
him if she hadn't broken it up. He shouldn't have treated you that way.”

Peabody opened
her mouth to explain she hadn't been mistreated, then wisely closed it again.
Her mother hadn't raised a foolish daughter. “It doesn't matter.” She cast her
eyes down in a sorrowful droop to hide the unholy gleam in them.

McNab and
Charles, fighting over her. It was too mag for words.

“Hell it
doesn't. If it helps any, I think he was really sorry.”

“He's a nice
guy, McNab. Not the kind that hurts anyone on purpose.”

“Doesn't
change the sting.” He kneeled down in front of her. “Look, I want us to get
back together.”

“We got
together pretty good last night.”

“I don't mean
just in the sheets. I want us to pick up the way we were going. But different.”

Wary now, she
eased back. “Different how?”

“Exclusive
this time. And we can, you know, go out to some fancy places. He's not the only
one who can get slicked up and take you to ... wherever. I don't want to go out
with anyone else, and I don't want you going out with anyone else either.”

Her throat
tickled, but she was afraid to swallow. “So, what, you're asking me to go
steady?”

His face went
hot, his teeth bared, and he shoved to his feet. “Never mind. Put it down to
too much to drink.” He swung toward the door again, nearly got there.

“Yes.” She got
up. She wished her knees weren't knocking, but she got up.

He turned
back, slowly. “Yes what?”

“I could give
it a try. See where it goes.”

He took a step
back. “Exclusive?”

“Yeah.”

And another.
“Like a couple.”

“Okay.”

When she
smiled, he leaned in and kissed her. “Oh, shit!” then jolted back when pain
exploded in his lip. He blotted at it with the back of his hand, saw fresh
blood. “Got anything for this?”

“Sure.” She
wanted to pet and cuddle him like a puppy. “Let me get the first-aid kit.”

When she came
back in with it, the bulletin announcement on-screen caught her attention.

The nude
body of a man floating in the East River was discovered tonight by dock
workers. Though police officials have not released cause of death, the victim
has been identified as Dr. Theodore McNamara.

“Holy hell.”
Peabody dropped the kit with a clatter and raced to her 'link.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The body had
been transported to the morgue and the crime scene cordoned off by the time Eve
arrived. Warehouses streamed in a messy ribbon of brick and concrete along the
choppy slice between access road and river.

And all had
the washed-out, false glare from the police lights.

The media
jammed around the barricades and sensors like Saturday night hopefuls vying to
gain admission to an exclusive club. And there was just as much chatter from
them in the form of shouted questions, demands, and pleas.

Uniformed
officers stood in as bouncers. Most were smart enough to ignore the pleas,
promises, and bribes for information. But, Eve knew, there would be one who'd
weaken and spring the first leak in the data dam.

Accepting it
as the natural relationship between cops and media, she hooked her badge on her
jacket and started muscling her way through.

“Dallas, hey,
Dallas!” Nadine Furst nipped her elbow. “What's the deal? Why were you called
in? What's your connection to Theodore McNamara?”

“I'm a cop.
He's dead.”

“Come on,
Dallas.” Even in the harsh light, Nadine managed to look vivid and
camera-ready. “They don't trot you out for every murder in the city.”

She flashed an
angry look at Nadine. “Nobody trots me out. Now step back, Nadine, you're in my
way.”

“All right,
okay. But the word is it looks like a robbery/murder. Is that your take?”

“I don't know
anything yet. Now friend or not, you move or I bust you for obstruction.”

Nadine shifted
aside. “Something's up,” she whispered to her camera operator. “Something big.
Pay attention. I'm going to call my contact at the morgue, see what I can
wheedle out. Watch Dallas,” she added. “If she's here, she's the center.”

Eve pushed her
way through reporters and gawkers. She caught a whiff of the river now, a sour
smear on the air. The crime scene team was at work, the fluorescent yellow
initials on the backs of their jackets searing through the hard white lights.
The beam of the powerful portables spilled out onto the pitch-black surface of
the river so that it gleamed like oil.

Outdoor,
night-time murder, Eve thought, was black and white.

She signalled
to a uniform. “Who's primary?”

“Detective
Renfrew. Short guy, dark hair, brown suit and tie,” she added with just a hint
of a sneer in her voice. “That's him. Standing with his hands on his hips
looking at the water like the perp's going to swim by doing the backstroke.”

Eve studied
his back. “Okay. Draw me a picture here.”

“Couple of
dock hands spotted the floater. Said they were taking their union-sanctioned
break, and you have to figure they were using the river for a toilet. Called it
in at twenty-two thirty. Nine-eleven caller IDed himself as Deke Jones. Body
hadn't been in long or else the fish weren't very interested. Severe head and
facial wounds. No clothes, no jewelry, no nothing. IDed him by his prints. Took
him off in the dead wagon about fifteen minutes ago.”

“This your
patrol area ... Officer Lewis?”

“Yes, sir. My
partner and I responded to the nine-eleven. We were on-scene within three
minutes. Dock workers were gathered around like a dirt clod, but nobody'd
touched the body. And, Lieutenant? I mentioned this to the detective, but he
didn't seem interested. There's a report of a car fire about a half mile from
here. Late model lux sedan, no passengers. The way this current runs, it could
be the dumping point.”

“Okay, thanks.
Renfrew's going to give me grief, isn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”
Lewis agreed. “He surely is.”

Eve wasn't
feeling patient, she wasn't feeling diplomatic, but she told herself she'd have
to be both.

Renfrew turned
at her approach. His gaze skimmed over her face, dipped briefly down to her
badge.

“No one called
Cop Central into this.” His shoulders went up and back, like a boxer bracing
for the first round.

She had a good
inch on him in height, and watched as he flexed his body forward on his toes to
compensate.

Oh yeah, she
thought, noting his combative stance, he was going to give her grief. “I didn't
get the tag from Central. I'm not looking to trespass on your turf, Detective
Renfrew. Your victim's connected to one of my cases. I think we might be able
to help each other out.”

“I don't need
your help, and I'm not interested in getting the fast shuffle from Central on
my case.”

“Okay, you can
help me out.”

“You're on my
crime scene, and that makes one too many badges around here. I've got work to
do.”

“Detective, I
need to know what you've got at this point.”

“You think you
can pull rank on me?” He rocked higher on his toes, jabbed a finger at her.
“Waltz in here and take over a high-profile murder so you can get your face
splashed all over the screen again? Forget it. I'm primary here.”

Eve imagined
grabbing the finger he had in her face, bending it back until the bone snapped.
But she kept her voice level. “I'm not interested in screen time, in pulling
rank, or in taking over your case, Renfrew. I'm interested in finding out why a
man I had scheduled for formal interview tomorrow ends up dead in the river.
I'm asking you to reach out with some courtesy and cooperation.”

“Courtesy and
cooperation. Fuck that. How much courtesy and cooperation did you show when you
tore into the One-twenty-eight a couple months ago? I don't reach out to cops
who turn on cops.”

“Sounds like
you've got issues, Renfrew. The One-two-eight was a mess, and a cop was killing
cops.”

He snorted
through his nose. “So you say.”

“So I say. And
right now someone's killing women who think they're going out for a pleasant
evening. Your case links to mine, so we can stand here and piss on each other
or we can share information that could close both cases quickly,”

“This is my
crime scene.” He jabbed a finger at her again. “I say who comes on it and who
doesn't. And I want you out. Remove yourself or I'll have you removed.”

Eve stuck her
hands in her pockets before she could give in to the urge and punch him. “Have
me removed, Renfrew.” She dug out her recorder, watched his face go red and
tight as she fixed it to her jacket. “Officially and on record have me removed
from a crime scene that is potentially linked to an ongoing homicide
investigation of which I am primary. Have me removed after I've asked you for
the cooperation and courtesy to exchange information that may aid in both
investigations.”

She stared him
down, waited five humming seconds. Around them, crime scene techs had stopped
their work to watch. “Have me removed,” she said again, “but before you take
that step, you'd better think carefully about how such an action will look on
the official record, how it's going to play in the media who are standing at
the edges of your scene, and how you're going to justify such an act to your
superiors.”

“Turn that
goddamn recorder off.”

“It stays on.
We're past doing this the easy way. I'm identified as Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,
and request from you, Renfrew ...” She dropped her gaze to his badge. “...
Detective Matthew, a report on your investigation into the death of Theodore
McNamara as this same individual was a potential witness, a potential suspect
in a series of homicides of which I am primary investigator.”

“You can read
my report when I file it. That's all I'm required to give you, Lieutenant. I've
got nothing to say to you at this time.”

When he
stalked off, Eve hissed out a breath. She turned to one of the crime scene
techs. “What have you got?”

“We've got
nothing here. Body got tangled in some lines, otherwise it would've kept on
keeping on. Renfrew, he's a dick. He should have a unit looking up-current for
the dump site.”

“Time of
death?”

“Seventeen-forty.”

“Thanks.”

“Me, I'm
loaded with cooperation and courtesy.”

She spotted
Peabody and headed over. “With me.” She walked away from the crowd, passed
through the barricade at its thinnest point. “I want you to check on an
automotive torching, late model luxury vehicle. About a half mile from here.
Find out who it's registered to.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eve pulled out
her own 'link, then saw McNab. “What happened to you?”

“A slight
altercation.” He touched fingers gingerly to his bruised eye.

“Peabody, did
you pop McNab?”

“No, sir.”

“Since you're
here and aren't in the middle of an altercation with my aide, you check on the
torching. Peabody, cozy up with some of the uniforms, first on-scene was Lewis
and her partner. See what else you can get from them. Steer clear of the
primary. That's Detective Renfrew, the flaming asshole.”

“Did you pop
the flaming asshole, sir?”

“No, but it
was a close call.” She turned away and used her 'link.

When the ME
answered, his voice was slurred with sleep.

“Gee, Morris,
did I wake you up?”

“What is this,
you never sleep so no one else is allowed to? What the hell time is it?”

“Time to do a
friend a favor.” When he sat up, shifted, Eve winced. “Man, either block video
or watch the sheets, will you?”

“Despite male
propaganda, I can officially attest that one man's balls are pretty much the
same as another's.” But he twitched the sheets back up to his waist. “But when
you fantasize about me later, and you will, make it good. Now, what do you
need?”

“You've got a
victim checking into the morgue. McNamara, Theodore.”

“Dr. Theodore
McNamara?”

“That's the
one.”

Morris
whistled. “Since I'm talking to you, I have to assume the famous doctor didn't
buy it from natural causes.”

“He's recently
been plucked out of the East River, and it doesn't appear he'd decided to take
a little swim.”

“If you're
calling to ask me to flag him priority, you're wasting a favor. High-profile
name, high-profile treatment.”

“That's not
the favor. I'm not primary on this one, but McNamara's connected to my sexual
homicides. I had a chat with him this afternoon, and had him booked for formal
tomorrow. I need a head's-up on the autopsy. All the data from the body and
from the primary's interaction with the pathologist assigned.”

“Why doesn't
the primary copy you?”

“He doesn't
like me. I gotta tell you, my feelings are real hurt over it.”

“Who's
primary?”

“Renfrew,
Detective Matthew.”

“Ah.” Morris
plumped the pillows behind him, laid back. “Territorial little bastard, poor
social skills, and a tendency to refuse to broaden his focus.”

“In other
words, a flaming asshole.”

“In other
words. I think I'll go in and take a look at the recently departed myself. I'll
get back to you.”

“Thanks,
Morris. I owe you one.”

“Yeah, I like
that part.”

“Morris?
What's the tattoo?”

Grinning,
Morris tapped a finger on the illustration just under his left nipple. “The
Grim Reaper. An equal opportunity employer.”

“You're a sick
man, Morris.” She clicked off. “A sick man.”

She'd kept her
back to the reporters as she talked, and her radar up. Most of them, with
nothing to feed on, were slipping away to do quick live-remotes.

McNab jogged
up to her.

“Walk and
talk,” she ordered. “I want to keep clear of the media. Once they make a
connection, we lose whatever advantage we've got.”

“It was
McNamara's sedan. Good and torched. NYFD's saying there was a chemical
accelerant. RD-52. It's a kind of flammable acid. You get a flash, fire burst,
and it eats right through the metal while it burns. Really thorough. Witness
saw the flash, went to take a look-see, and had the presence of mind to note
down the vehicle ID before it evaporated. Five, ten more minutes, we'd have had
nothing.”

“Smart, but
not smart enough. They should've blasted off the ID before they torched it.
Little mistakes.” She looked back toward the river. “Robbery, my ass. Who rolls
a guy, even takes his clothes, then wastes a luxury sedan? What do you bet
McNamara paid his killer a visit after I talked to him?”

“I'd put the
bank on it.”

“If Renfrew
was less of a moron, we could wrap this up tonight.” Staring into middle
distance, she juggled possibilities. “Dunwood doesn't know Renfrew's a moron.
Renfrew'll notify next of kin, but that's the wife. No reason for the grandson
to come into play there. And no reason for me not to pay him a visit to express
my sympathy for his loss and question him. Lucias Dunwood. Get his address.
Let's shake him up.”

“You got it.”

They
separated, and Eve made another call. This one to home. “Hi.” She tried a smile
when Roarke came on. “I guess they're still there, huh?”

As there was
music blasting and the sound of half-drunken laughter rolling over it, Roarke
just shrugged.

“Look, I'm
sorry I dumped it on you. Maybe you should lock yourself in one of the rooms.
They'll never find you in that place.”

“I'm
considering it. I take it you've called to let me know you'll be some time
yet.”

“I don't know
how long. A lot going on. If I can't close it down tonight, I'm still going to
need Mavis and Trina tomorrow. Maybe you should lock them in a room.”

“Not to worry.
I suspect they'll pass out soon enough.”

“There's that.
Hold on.” She turned to McNab. “What?”

“Got an
address, but it's bogus.”

“What do you
mean, bogus?”

“I mean the
address listed for Lucias Dunwood is the Fun House, Times Square. I know
because I spend a lot of time there. It's a big e-amusement center. No
residences on premises.”

“He likes to
play games,” she replied. “Give me some room here.” She stepped away until she
was out of earshot. “Listen -- “

“You'd like me
to find Dunwood's actual address.”

“McNamara
would've had it. I'm not going to be able to access his files from here because
the primary on this is playing big stud dog with the investigation.”

“I see.”
Roarke was already moving away from the music.

“I could call
Whitney and get clearance, but that's messy. Plus, it makes me feel like a
tattletale or something.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I could tag
Feeney, and he'd wangle authorization through EDD, but I've already gotten one
person out of bed tonight.” She glanced back at McNab. “Maybe more.”

“And I'm
already up.”

“Yeah.
Technically ... well, just skimming the technicalities, I'm authorized to
access some data because he's a suspect. Whether this data includes his address
files or personal data is debatable, but I'd have clearance for it in the
morning anyway so ...”

“Why wait?
Would you like that address now, or would you like to keep rationalizing a bit
longer?”

She blew out a
breath, noting that he'd gone up to his office while she'd been talking. “I'll
just take the address.”

He gave it to
her. “Oh, Lieutenant? Since that's only a few blocks from here, perhaps you'll
make it home while I still have my sanity.”

“I'll do my
best. Guess I owe you one, too.”

“Be sure I'll
collect.”

She broke
transmission, signalled McNab. “Get Peabody. We're moving.”

She was nearly
to her vehicle when she saw Nadine, leaning on the hood and examining her
nails.

“That's city
property you're resting your ass on.”

“Why do they
go out of their way to make official vehicles so ugly?”

“I don't know,
but I'm taking it up with my Congressman first chance I get.”

“Rumor is you
and Detective Renfrew got into a little power tussle.”

“Rumors are
your department.”

“Then you
wouldn't be interested that rumor continues that he's a jerk and you cut him
down bloodlessly.” Nadine tossed her streaky blonde hair. “But you may be
interested in a deduction, since deductions are your department. I deduce that
Dr. Theodore McNamara plays into the sexual homicides you're investigating,
that robbery had nothing to do with his ending up in the river, and that you
have a very good idea who bashed him about the head and face earlier this
evening. And whoever that may be has a starring role in your homicides.”

“That's a lot
of deducing, Nadine.”

“Will you
confirm?”

Eve merely
crooked a finger, walked away. When the camera operator fell into step behind
Nadine, Eve stopped her with one steely stare.

“Wait for me,”
Nadine told her. “She's just doing her job, Dallas.”

“We're all
just doing our jobs. Turn the recorder off.”

“Recorder?”

“Don't waste
my time. We go off record, or you get nothing.”

Nadine sighed,
heavily and strictly for form, then disconnected the recorder worked into her
gold lapel pin. “Off record.”

“You don't go
on the air with anything until I tell you.”

“Do I get a
one-on-one?”

“Nadine, I
don't have time to negotiate with you. For all I know there's another woman
dead tonight and no one's found her yet. You go on air with your deductions and
there could be another one dead tomorrow.”

“Okay. It
stays in holding until you say.”

“McNamara's
connected. I talked to him this afternoon. He wasn't cooperative. I believe he
knew or suspected the identity of the killer. I believe he confronted that
individual after our conversation, and as a result ended up a floater.”

“That only
confirms my deductions.”

“I'm not
finished. I believe the root of these murders goes back to a project partnered
by J. Forrester and Allegany Pharmaceuticals nearly twenty-five years ago. Sex,
scandals, illegals abuse, payoffs, and cover-ups. Dig there for your background
and you'll be several steps ahead of the other networks.”

“Was McNamara
directly involved in the killings?”

“Years ago he
spent a lot of time, energy, and money making sure that facts, actions, and
criminal activities that should have been part of the public record were
sealed. He refused to cooperate by volunteering information pertinent to the
investigation of the murder of two women and the attack on another, instead
opting to withhold that information. Did he kill them? No. Is he responsible?
That's a moral call. That's not my department either.”

Nadine touched
her arm as Eve turned away. “I have a contact at the morgue. McNamara was
struck several blows on the head and face nearly an hour before he died. One
defensive wound, right wrist. While the initial injuries came from a blunt
instrument about eight inches wide, the killing blow was delivered by a
different weapon. A long, slim metal object such as a crowbar or tire iron that
might be found in the tool kit of a car.”

She paused. “I
believe in the courtesy and cooperation of shared information.”

“I really hate
knowing that phrase is going to follow me around for the next six weeks.”

Eve walked
back to the car. “Backseat, McNab.”

“How come I
can't sit in front? I outrank her. And my legs're longer.”

“She's my
aide, you're ballast.” She climbed in, and didn't speak again until McNab had
stopped grumbling and arranged himself on the backseat. “We're going to pay a
visit to Lucias Dunwood.”

“How'd you get
the address?”

She glanced at
McNab in the rearview mirror. “I have my ways of ascertaining data. Peabody,
you'll go in with me. McNab, you'll stay in the vehicle.”

“But -- “

“I go in with
a uniform, not a uniform and a detective. And not a detective who looks like he
spent his evening brawling in the streets. You'll stay behind, with your
communicator open as mine will be. If we run into any trouble, you call for
backup, then, using your judgment, decide whether you wait for that backup or
come in and assist. Now I want you to get me another address. Kevin Morano.”

Making the
best of things he pulled out his PPC and stretched his length out on the
backseat. “Hey, there's a candy bar taped to the back of the passenger's seat.”

Even as
Peabody swiveled around to try to look, Eve bared her teeth. “First one who
touches it gets their fingers ripped off and stuffed up their nose.”

Peabody sprang
back into position. “You're hoarding candy.”

“It's not a
hoard. It's an emergency supply, which the sneaking candy thief who keeps
raiding my office hasn't found yet. And if he or she does find it, I'll know
why.” She paused significantly. “And you will pay.”

“I'm on a diet
anyway.”

“You don't
need to diet, She-Body. You are a just-right female.”

“McNab?” Eve
said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Shut up.”

“It's all
right, Dallas. We're a couple.”

“A couple of
what? No, don't tell me. Don't talk to me. Don't talk to each other. Let there
be silence across the land.”

Peabody
managed to muffle a snicker, then tried to adjust the climate control manually.

“It's busted.
Shut up.”

Saying
nothing, Peabody rolled down her window.

McNab shifted
in the back. “Permission to speak on official business, sir?”

“What?”

“Kevin Morano's
address. Yankee Stadium. Do you want me to contact Roarke and have him ... I
mean,” he amended when she glared in the rearview, “do you want to implement
your ways of ascertaining data?”

“No. I know
where he lives.”

When she
stopped in front of the grand old brownstone, it was after one a.m. The house
was dark but for the red pinprick of light on the armed security system.

“Are you
armed, McNab?”

“My off-duty
stunner.”

“Keep it set
on low, keep your communicator open. Don't approach the house unless I signal
you to do so. Come on, Peabody, let's go wake this prick up.”

She crossed
the sidewalk. When she stepped onto the first stone stair, the security system
went into a warning hum. She pressed the bell. Instantly light washed down from
overhead and the security system went on first alert.

You are
currently under surveillance. Please state your name and your business. Any
attempt to enter the premises or cause damage to same, and this system will
immediately notify the police and the neighborhood watch.

“Lieutenant
Dallas, NYPSD.” She held her badge up to the view screen. “I need to speak with
Lucias Dunwood regarding a police matter.”

One moment,
please, while your identification is processed and verified... Please wait
while Mr. Dunwood is informed of your request...

“Lieutenant,
do you think -- “

Eve shifted
her body subtly, and stepped on Peabody's foot under camera range. “I think
it's difficult having to wake Mr. Dunwood up to tell him about his
grandfather's death. But there's never a good time for hard news, and no point
in waiting for morning to give it.”

“No, sir.”
Peabody cleared her throat, fixed a sober expression on her face as she
realized she was being told they were likely under audio as well as video
surveillance.

It took
several minutes before the light in the first floor windows flashed on. She
didn't hear locks being disengaged, which told her the door was fully
soundproofed. It opened silently, and she got her first look at Lucias.

His bright red
hair was disheveled. He wore a long white night-robe belted loosely at the
waist. And gave every appearance of a young man just roused out of sleep, and
puzzled as to the reason why.

“I'm sorry.”
He blinked owlishly. “You're the police?”

“Yes.” She
offered her badge again. “Are you Lucias Dunwood?”

“That's right.
What's this about? Is there some trouble in the neighborhood?”

“Not that I'm
aware of. May we come in and speak to you, Mr. Dunwood?”

“All right.
Sorry, I'm a little punchy.” He stepped back, gestured them into a wide foyer
with marble floors glowing under the lights from a three-tiered silver
chandelier. “I've been in bed a couple of hours. I'm not used to having the
police come to my door.”

“I'm sorry to
disturb you so late. I have some difficult news. It might be better if we sat
down.”

“What kind of
news? What's wrong?”

“Mr. Dunwood,
I'm sorry to tell you that your grandfather is dead.”

“My
grandfather?”

Eve watched
with reluctant admiration as he paled, lifted a hand that trembled very
slightly to his lips. “Dead? My grandfather's dead? Was there an accident?”

“No, he was
murdered.”

“Murdered? Oh
God, oh my God. I do need to sit down.” He made it as far as a long silver
bench in the foyer, then collapsed on it. “I can't believe this. It's like I'm
dreaming. What happened? What happened to him?”

“Your
grandfather was found in the East River earlier tonight. The investigation into
his death is underway. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Dunwood, but it would help
us if you'd answer some questions.”

“Of course. Of
course I will.”

“Are you here
alone?”

“Alone?” His
head came up and she saw suspicion pass quickly over his face before he lowered
it again.

“If you're
alone, perhaps there's someone you'd like my aide to call. To stay with you.”

“No. No, I'm
all right. I'll be all right.”

“When's the last
time you saw your grandfather?”

“He's been
away, some consult business off planet. I suppose it's been several weeks.”

“Did he at
that time express to you any concerns, any fears for his safety?”

“Why no.”
Lucias looked up again. “I don't understand.”

“There's a
possibility your grandfather was killed by someone he knew. A car registered in
his name was set on fire only hours before his body was found. The car was
parked near the ground-shuttle tracks off East One-forty-three. Are you aware
of any business that would take him to that area?”

“None
whatsoever. His car was set on fire? That sounds like -- like some sort of
vendetta. But Grandfather was, he was a humanitarian, a great man who dedicated
his life to medicine and research. This has to be some terrible mistake.”

“Are you
studying to be a doctor?”

“I'm taking a
leave from schooling just now.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, covering
most of his face. And Eve studied the dragon's head carved into the sapphire in
the blended gold ring on his right hand.

“I wanted time
to think, to explore, to decide what area of medicine would suit me best. My
grandfather ...” His voice broke, he looked away. “He leaves big footprints to
fill. He was my mentor, my inspiration.”

“I'm sure he
was very proud of you. You were close then?”

“I think so.
He was larger than life, a man who drove himself to excel. I hope to be worthy
of his memory. To end like this, thrown in the river like ... sewage. My God,
to have been stripped of his dignity at the end of his life. How he would hate
that. You have to find who did this to him, Lieutenant. They have to pay for
what they did.”

“We'll find
them, and they'll pay. I'm sorry, but I have to ask, it's standard procedure.
Can you account for your whereabouts tonight, between the hours of seven and
midnight?”

“My ...
Christ. I hadn't thought... I'd be a kind of suspect. I was home here until
about eight-thirty. Then I went out to a club. I didn't actually talk to
anyone. Didn't see anyone very interesting. I'd been hoping ... Okay, I
confess. I'd thought I might pick up a girl for the evening, but it didn't work
out. I came home early. Ten-thirty, I'd say. My security system would verify
that.”

“So you were
alone, essentially?”

“I have a
house droid.” He got to his feet. “I can get it. You can question it as to when
I left, when I came back. Oh, and I have a cash receipt for drinks. I'm sure
they're time and date stamped. Will that help?”

“Very much.
We'll just clear this up so we can move on in the investigation.”

“Anything I
can do. Anything to help. I'll get the droid. And while you're doing the
questioning, I'll get the receipt. I'm sure I stuck it in my pocket.”

“Appreciate
it. Oh, I should tell you your address is mis-listed in the city files.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your address,
there's an error. I got your correct location from your grandfather's files.
You might want to see to that, when you get the chance.”

“How odd. Yes,
I'll take care of it. Excuse me just a minute.”

He got the
droid, having no doubt Kevin's careful re-programming and falsified input would
hold. But his fists were clenched when he strode into his bedroom. Kevin rushed
in behind him.

“You said
they'd never identify the car.”

“Well, they
did,” Lucias shot back. “But it doesn't matter. Everything's fine. Looks like
it's just as well that stupid bitch didn't show up at Jean-Luc's tonight. I
wouldn't have this.” He tugged the receipt out of his trouser pocket. “Alibied
all around, and playing the shocked and grieving grandson.”

“What about
me?”

“They don't
know about you, and there's no reason they should. There's no connection
between this and the project as far as the cops are concerned. And no
connection that can be proved between me and my grandfather's death. Just stay
up here and be quiet. I'm handling this.”

He hurried
down again. “Lieutenant, in my pocket, just as I thought.” He handed Eve the
receipt.

“Fine. I'd
like my aide to make a copy of this for the files.”

“Of course.”

He waited
while Peabody scanned the receipt. “Is there anything else I can do? Anything
at all?”

“Not at this
time. We'll be in touch.”

“You'll let me
know if you -- when you find who did this.”

“You'll be the
first,” Eve promised.

She walked
back to the car, slid behind the wheel. “Cold-blooded son of a bitch. He was
enjoying that.”

“Droid
could've been reprogrammed,” McNab said from the backseat. “Same for the
security. The guy who's been doing the e-work could've done both. It'd be
cake.”

“Still, we
didn't get much out of him,” Peabody complained.

“Didn't we?”
Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel. “I never said his grandfather's name and
he never asked. He has the requisite two, both New York City residents. But he
never asked which one was dead. Didn't have to ask. And that bit about being
stripped of his dignity at the end of his life. That's just what he'd done.
What he'd intended to do. And he out-thought himself by not just saying his pal
and housemate Kevin was with him part of the evening. Didn't want to share the
spotlight.”

“I guess we
got more out of him than I thought.”

“That's right.
Little mistakes.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Roarke met
them at the door. It only took one look at Eve's face to confirm his suspicion
that she was running on fumes. At that moment, he'd have preferred closing the
door in Peabody's and McNab's faces, scooping his wife up, and pouring her into
bed.

Because she
read something of his thoughts, Eve nudged everyone inside. “It was quicker to
bring them here.”

“We can catch
a cab downtown,” Peabody said, sacrificing the delights of lolling in one of
the magnificent beds for a few hours.

“Don't be
silly.” Roarke skimmed a hand over Eve's hair, a subtle gesture of reassurance.
“We've plenty of room. Whose fist did you run into, Ian?”

“Monroe's.” He
smirked and sent his sore lip throbbing. “We ran into each other's.”

“It's nothing
to brag about.” Eve stripped off her jacket. “Crash here. The briefing's at oh
six hundred anyway. Pick a couple of bedrooms on opposite sides of the house.”

“Aw” was all
Peabody said.

Laughing,
Roarke patted her arm. “She doesn't mean it.”

“Do, too,” Eve
replied. “Mavis and Trina?”

“In the pool,
along with Leonardo, who arrived about two hours ago. I bowed out when they
decided it was time for nude relay races.”

“They're
naked?” McNab perked right up. “Wet and naked? You know, a quick swim would be
good. Just a passing thought,” he murmured when Peabody curled her lip.

“Playtime's
over. Bed.” Eve pointed up the stairs. “We've got a major op tomorrow, and I
want you both fresh. Where are the mermaids and friend bunking?”

“Oh, here and
there,” Roarke said easily. “Why don't you go up? I'll settle our company in.”

“Good. I've
got some things left to run before I turn in.” She started up the stairs. “And
I don't want to hear the patter of little feet sneaking around the corridors.”

“She's so
strict,” Peabody said under her breath.

“Tired and
cross is what she is. Now, why don't we take the elevator.” Roarke gestured. “I
think you'll like the accommodations I have in mind. Plenty of room for two.”

Eve went to
his office first, brought up a diagram of Greenpeace Park. After highlighting
the picnic site, she let the computer select the most strategic locations for
her men. She'd see if she agreed -- after a few hours of sleep.

She listed the
men she wanted for the operation, transmitted the order, and copied Whitney.

A shower, she
decided when her vision blurred. Maybe a shower would wash some of the fog out
of her brain so she could put another hour in.

She was
staggering into the bedroom when her pocket-link beeped. “Dallas.”

“Figured I'd
tag you on the portable.” Morris yawned hugely. “Our guest this evening
departed this plane of existence at seven-forty. Previously, he had an
unpleasant altercation with a blunt object. This altercation would have
resulted in death within an hour, perhaps a tad less. The medical term would be
having one's brains bashed in.”

“Got it.” Too
tired to stand, she sat on the arm of the sofa in the sitting area. “I hate to
be the one to break this to you, Morris, but I already got the data from a
media source. You've got a gossip in your house.”

“No! Why, I'm
shocked and amazed. A city official leaking information to the media. What is
the world coming to?”

“You're a
fucking jolly soul.”

“Love your
work, love the world. I don't imagine your media contact had quite everything,
as I've just gotten the tox results.”

She shook her
head clear as Roarke came into the room. “He was drugged?”

“Between the
initial insults and the coup de grace, the doctor was given a stimulant.”

“They tried to
revive him?” Her thoughts jumbled, then cleared before Morris could answer.
“No, that doesn't make sense. They wanted to keep him alive a little longer.”

“Give the lady
a stuffed panda. The substance used stimulates the heart, and it's quickly
absorbed. If we'd gotten him in here twenty, thirty minutes later, we wouldn't
have found a trace of it.”

“They kept him
alive so they could get him to a dumping site and kill him there. He'd have
died anyway, right, from the initial beating?”

“Without
immediate medical attention, yes. And even then his chances were minimal. He'd
certainly have drowned without that final blow.”

“So they
wanted to give him that last shot. When he was unconscious, helpless. Stripped
of his dignity.”

“You've got
yourself mighty nasty customers, Dallas. I'm sending the data to our mutual
friend Renfrew. His robbery theory doesn't cut the mustard.”

“Thanks. I
appreciate you handling this yourself.”

“Just part of
our luxury package. Get some sleep, for sweet Christ's sake, Dallas. I've got
customers in here who look perkier than you.”

“Yeah, I'll do
that.” She broke transmission, then just sat, staring down at her 'link. She
blinked back when Roarke released her weapon harness. “You put them in a room
together, didn't you?”

“Haven't you
more to worry about than the sexual activities of your subordinates?”

“My
subordinates come dragging their asses into the briefing because they've spent
what's left of the night playing hide the salami... What're you doing?”

“Taking off
your boots. You're going to bed.”

She stared
down at the top of his head. Jesus, the man had the most incredible hair ...
All black and silky, she thought as her head started to loll. So you just
wanted to bury your hands in it. Your face in it and ...

She snapped
back. “I'm going to grab a shower and get another hour in.”

“No, Eve,
you're not.” Temper simmered in his voice as he tossed her boots aside with
just enough force to have them bounce and skitter. “I'm not standing here
watching while you make yourself sick. You go to bed on your own, or I knock
you out and put you there.”

She frowned at
him. It wasn't often the rage showed, that hot and bubbling violence they both
knew lived inside him. Seeing it leap, she knew she must look every bit as
ragged as Morris indicated.

“I saw his
face. I looked in his face.” She spoke quietly. “I can't sleep, Roarke, because
I'll see it.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, then rose. “I looked at him,
and if I hadn't known what he was, I wouldn't have seen it.”

She walked
away, dragged open a window. Breathed. “He's young. His face is still a little
soft around the edges. His hair's all red and curly like, I don't know, a
pretty kid's doll or something. He'd killed tonight, taken a life -- a life
connected to him by blood -- with deliberation and forethought and extreme
violence. And he sat there talking to me. Teary. Remorseful. He played it
perfectly, and I wouldn't have seen it. I wouldn't have seen what's in him.”

He hated to
hear the fatigue in her voice, and more the discouragement that ghosted through
it. “Why should you?”

“Because I was
watching for it, and it wasn't there.” She whirled back. “He enjoyed it. I know
that, in my gut, but I didn't see it on his face, didn't see it in his eyes. He
was ... entertained. I'd upped the stakes for him again. Same game, new level.

“I wanted to
hurt him,” she continued. “Personally. I wanted to ram my fist into his face
until I erased it. Erased him.”

“Instead you
walked away.” He crossed to her, certain she was unaware that her cheeks were
wet. “Because you'll erase him by stopping him, by putting him in a cage for
the rest of his life. Eve.” He framed her face in his hands, brushed at the
damp with his thumbs. “Darling Eve, you're exhausted, right down to the bone.
If you don't rest, who'll stand for those women?”

She lifted her
hands to his wrists. “The dream I had, the last one, with my father standing
there bleeding from dozens of holes I'd put in him. He said I'd never be rid of
him. He was right. You take one down and another one's right there. Right there
waiting. I can't sleep, because I'll see them.”

“Not tonight.”
He drew her in. “We won't let them come in tonight. If you won't sleep ...” He
brushed his lips over her temple. “... you'll rest.”

He picked her
up, carried her back to the sofa.

“What are we
doing?”

“We'll watch a
movie,” he told her.

“A movie.
Roarke -- “

“It's
something you don't do enough of.” He laid her down, selected a film disc. “Go
outside yourself and into make-believe. Dramas or comedies, joys and sorrows
that pull you away from your own for a bit of time.”

He came back,
slid behind her, and tucked her head on his shoulder. “I've told you about this
one, Magda Lane. It took me out of my own miseries once.”

It felt so
good to lie with him, to have his arm hooked cozily around her waist. The
opening music swept into the room, color and costume swirled on-screen. “How
many times have you seen this?” she asked him.

“Oh, dozens, I
suppose. Shh. You'll miss the opening lines.”

She watched,
and when her lids drooped, she listened. Then she slept.

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

When she woke,
it was quiet, and it was dark, and his arm was still around her. Fatigue wanted
to drag her back under, but she willed it back and turned her wrist up to check
the time.

Already
after five, she thought. She'd had a
solid three hours' sleep, and it would have to be enough. But when she started
to move, Roarke's arm tightened.

“Take a few
minutes more.”

“Can't. It's
going to take a half hour in the shower to beat my brain back into shape. I
wonder if I can take a shower lying down.”

“It's called a
bath.”

“Not the
same.”

“Why are you
whispering?”

“I'm not
whispering.” She cleared her throat. And felt as if she'd swallowed splinters
of glass. “Just a little hoarse.”

“Lights on,
ten percent.” In the dim glow he nudged her onto her back. “Pale as a ghost,
too,” he said and laid a hand on her brow. Something like panic ran over his
face. “I think you're running a fever.”

“I am not.” If
he could feel panic at the thought of illness, she could feel fear. “I'm not
sick. I don't get sick.”

“You don't
sleep more than a handful of hours in a week and live on coffee, you get sick.
Damn it, Eve, you've sabotaged your immune system once too often.”

“I have not.”
She started to sit up, then plopped back when the room spun. “I'm just getting
my bearings.”

“I ought to
strap you in bed for the next month. You need a bloody keeper.” He rolled off
the sofa, strode to the house 'link.

“I don't know
what you're so pissed off about.” Her voice was perilously close to a whine,
and appalled her. “I'm just a little muggy yet.”

“You set a
single toe off that sofa, and I'm hauling you to the doctor.”

“You just try
it, pal, and we'll see who needs medical attention.” Since the threat came out
in a wheeze, it wasn't particularly effective.

Roarke simply
glared at her, and snapped into the 'link. “Summerset. Eve's ill. I need you up
here.”

“What? What
are you doing?” She shoved herself up, nearly gained her feet before Roarke
stalked back and held her down. “He's not touching me. He lays one hand on me
and I'm beating you both bloody. Where's my weapon?”

“It's him or
the health center.”

She sucked in
air. “You are not the boss here.”

“Prove it,” he
challenged. “Take me down.”

She pushed up,
he shoved her back. She reared again, and this time pumped her fist into his
belly.

“It's
gratifying to see you have some strength left, even if that was a girl punch.”

The insult
nearly rendered her speechless. “The first chance, the very first chance I get,
I'm tying your dick into a knot.”

“Won't that be
fun?” He looked over as Summerset came in. “She's running a fever.”

“I am not.
Don't you touch me. Don't lay a hand -- “ She cursed, struggled, when Roarke
straddled her and pinned her arms,

“Such
childishness.” Summerset clucked his tongue, laid a hand on her brow.
“Temperature's slightly elevated.” He danced his long fingers under her jaw,
along her throat. “Stick out your tongue.”

“Eve.”
Roarke's single word was drenched in warning as she pressed her lips tightly
together. She stuck out her tongue.

“Do you have
any pain?” Summerset asked her.

“Yeah, in my
ass. I call it Summerset.”

“I see your
droll wit hasn't suffered. Just a bit of a bug,” he said to Roarke. “Due, I
imagine, to exhaustion, stress, and juvenile eating habits. We can ward it off,
and treat the symptoms. I'll go get what she needs. She'll do best with a day
or two in bed.”

“Get off me,”
she said in a low, clear voice when Summerset went out. “Right now.”

“No.” Her arms
were trembling under his grip, and he didn't think it was all from temper. “Not
until we've dealt with this. Are you cold?”

“No.” She was
freezing. And the pitiful struggle she'd put up had awakened aches everywhere.

“Then why are
you shivering?” He bit off an oath, snagged a throw from the back of the couch
and had it flung over her before she could push the order from brain to body to
move.

“Damn it,
Roarke, he's going to come back and poke at me, and try to make me drink one of
his weird brews. I just need a hot shower. Let me up. Have a heart.”

“I do, and
it's yours.” He lowered his brow to hers. “That's the problem.”

“I'm feeling
better. Really.” It was a lie, poorly executed as her voice was beginning to
tremble. “And when I close this case, I'll take a day off. I'll sleep for twenty
hours. I'll eat vegetables.”

He had to
smile. “I love you, Eve.”

“Then don't
let him back in here.” Her eyes wheeled as she heard the elevator doors open.
“He's coming,” she whispered. “In the name of everything holy, save me.”

“She needs to
sit up.” Summerset set a tray on the table. On it was a glass of milky liquid,
a trio of white tablets, and a pressure syringe.

Eve let
herself go limp, and when Roarke eased back, she sprang. It was a sweaty
battle, but a short one. Without batting a lash, Summerset stepped over,
pinched her nose closed, dropped the tablets in her mouth, and chased them down
her throat with the liquid.

He smiled at
Roarke while she sputtered. “I recall having to do that to you a time or two.”

“That's where
I learned it.”

“Get her shirt
off. The vitamin booster will work fastest this way.”

To save time,
and his own skin, Roarke simply ripped off her sleeve. “How's that?”

“Good enough.”

She'd gone
past anger into weeping, humiliating herself. Everything hurt -- head, body,
pride. When the syringe pressed against her arm, she barely felt it.

“Shh, baby.
Shh.” Shaken, Roarke stroked her hair and rocked her. “It's all over now. Don't
cry.”

“Go away,” she
said even as she clung to him. “Just go away.”

“Leave me
alone with her.” Summerset touched Roarke's shoulder, felt a pang when he saw
the naked emotion on his face. “Give us a few minutes.”

“All right.”
Roarke held her tight another minute. “I'll be in the gym.”

When he set
her aside, she curled into a ball. Summerset sat beside her, saying nothing
until she'd sniffled herself into silence.

“What he feels
for you overwhelms him,” Summerset began. “There was never anyone else. The
women who came and went before you were diversions, temporary interests. He
might care, because despite everything that was done to him, he's a man with a
large capacity for caring. And still, there was no one before you. Don't you
see how he worries?”

She uncurled
herself, rubbed her hands over her wet face as if she could rub away the
embarrassment of the tears. “He shouldn't worry.”

“He does and
he will. You need rest, Lieutenant, and a few days without work and worry. And
so does he. So very much does he. He won't take his without you.”

“I can't. Not
now.”

“Won't.”

She closed her
eyes. “Go up to my office, look at the faces of the dead pinned to my board.
Then tell me to step away.”

“He wouldn't,
would he? But to do what you need to do, you require your strength, energies,
and wit.” He leaned over, picked up the glass. “Finish it.”

She frowned at
the glass. She hated to admit whatever he'd given her was already working. So
she wouldn't. “It's probably poison.”

“Poison,” he
said, amused. “Why didn't I think of that? Perhaps next time.”

“Har-har.” She
took the glass, downed the remaining contents. “There must be a way to make
this taste less like sewage.”

“Certainly.”
He set the glass back on the tray, then got to his feet. “But I'm entitled to
my small pleasures. I might suggest you try some moderate exercise now.”

She didn't
have time, but she took it anyway and went down to the gym. He wasn't using the
machines, he rarely did, but was steadily, sweatily, working his way through
bench presses. He had the screen on, with the audio set to spew out the various
stock reports.

She found she
didn't understand the words any more than she did the symbols.

She went to
him, knelt by his head. “I'm sorry.”

He continued
to lift, set, lower. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Roarke,
I'm sorry. I was an idiot. Don't be mad at me. I don't think I could handle it
right now.”

“I'm not mad
at you.” He lifted the bar into the safety, then slid out from under. “The
situation occasionally rips my throat out.”

“I can't do
anything else. I can't be anything else.”

He reached
down for his towel, rubbed it over his face. “I wouldn't want you to do or be
anything else. It's beyond my capabilities not to react as I do when you run
yourself into the ground.”

“You usually
drag me back out before the ground closes over my head.”

He looked at
her face. Still so pale, he thought. Nearly transparent. “Doesn't seem I was
quite quick enough this time.”

“Let's go to
Mexico.”

“Excuse me?”

“The house in
Mexico.” She figured if she could surprise him, she was still in reasonable
shape. “It's been a while. Why don't we take a long weekend once this is over?”

Considering
her, he drew the towel between his hands, then hooked it behind her head to
bring her closer. “Who's dragging who back out now?”

“Let's drag
each other. Give me time to close this down, and you do whatever it is you do
to clear a few days. Then we'll run away. We'll lie on the beach, we'll get
drunk and have monkey sex. We'll watch film discs until our eyes fall out.”

“Go back to
the monkey sex.”

She laid her
hands on his cheeks. “I've got to get ready for the briefing. We've got a deal,
right?”

“Yes.” He
pressed his lips to her forehead, relieved to find it cool again. “We
definitely have a deal.”

She got up,
but when she reached the door, turned back to look at him. He still sat on the
bench, lean and sweaty in a black muscle shirt. He'd tied his hair back and had
yet to bother with shoes.

And he watched
her through eyes so brilliantly blue, it seemed she could dive through them,
and into him.

“There was
never anybody before you,” she said. “I just wanted to say that. And when I did
what I do, and it opened a crack in me like it did last night, there was nobody
there to hold on to me. I didn't want anyone to hold on to me. Until you. And I
got through and I got by, and it was okay. But I think, maybe, if I'd just kept
getting through and getting by, I'd have come to a point where I couldn't do it
anymore. And if I couldn't do it anymore, it'd be the end of me, Roarke.”

She took a
steadying breath. “So when you hold on to me, you're helping me stand up, one
more time. And the dead, you're standing for them, too. I just wanted to say
that.”

She went out
quickly, and left him staring after her.

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

When she
strode into her office at six minutes after six, she was heavy-eyed, pale, but
clear-headed. She found McNab and Peabody had already raided the AutoChef. And
Feeney, just arrived, was helping himself to the spread set out across her
desk.

“What the hell
do you think this is, the Breakfast Barn?”

“Gotta have
fuel.” Feeney munched into a strip of bacon. “Mother Mary, it's pig meat. Know
how long it's been since I had a slice of real pig?”

She nipped it
out of his fingers, ate it herself. “Then get a damn plate. You can eat while I
bring you up to speed. Peabody, it appears there's no cup of coffee in my hand.
I can only assume I've somehow stepped into an alternate universe.”

Peabody
swallowed a heaping forkful of ham and eggs. “Maybe in this one I'm the
lieutenant, and you're ...” She hopped up, propelled by Eve's frightening look.
“Let me get you a cup of coffee, Lieutenant. Sir.”

“You do that.
The rest of the team are due here by oh eight hundred. I've already got the
diagram of the target area on-screen, with computer-generated selections for
personnel placement. We'll consider those and adjust if warranted. Feeney, I'd
suggest you take McNab into the surveillance vehicle.”

“I'd prefer a
spot in the park, sir, and a chance to be in on the takedown.”

Eve angled her
head at McNab and copped another slice of bacon from the plate Feeney had just
fixed. “You should have thought of that before you picked a fight and got your
pretty face all banged up. Which will only draw attention to you in a place
where children play and birds sing merrily in the trees.”

“Gotcha
there,” Feeney said to McNab. “You're with me.”

“You'll want
another e-man as point,” Eve continued. “You know your men better than I do, so
I leave it to you.”

“Good, because
I've already picked him. Roarke,” he said, and wagged a finger at the doorway
as the man in question strode in.

“Good
morning.” He was still in black, and though the shirt and trousers were
elegant, he managed to look every bit as lean and dangerous as he had in the
muscle shirt. “Sorry. Am I late?”

“You think
you're sneaky, don't you?”

He snatched
the bacon Eve had snatched out of her hand. “Not at all, Lieutenant. I know I
am. Which is why I'm very suited for this op.”

“You want in,
it's up to him.” She jerked a thumb at Feeney. “But remember, this is my op.”

He bit into
the bacon, handed it back to her. “How could I forget?”

By
eight-thirty, the full team was briefed. She began assigning roles and
positions.

“Hey, hey.”
Detective Baxter waved a hand. “How come I have to be a sidewalk sleeper?”

“Because you
make such a good one,” Eve told him. “And you look so sexy with a beggar's
license around your neck.”

“Trueheart
ought to be the sleeper,” Baxter insisted. “He's the rookie.”

“I don't mind,
Lieutenant.”

Eve glanced at
Trueheart. “You're too young, too wholesome. Baxter's got some miles on him.
Peabody, you and Roarke will do the couple's stroll through this area.” Eve
used her laser pointer to highlight the diagram on-screen. Trueheart, you're
park maintenance staff, and you'll cover this sector.”

“I've got the
best gig,” Peabody told McNab.

“Nobody
approaches the suspect,” Eve continued. “That time of the afternoon, spring
day, the park's going to have a lot of traffic. People taking their lunch in
the open air, kids running around. The park's open daily to botany clubs,
bird-watching clubs, school field trips. The area the suspect selected is
fairly secluded, but there will be civilians. Weapons are not to be drawn
without extreme need. I don't want to see little Johnny stunned off the swing
set because somebody got jumpy.”

She sat on the
edge of her desk. “You'll also be on the lookout for the second suspect. We
have no way of knowing if they work in tandem during their setup stage. If you
spot him, if you think you've spotted him, you relay that data to Feeney. You
do not, repeat, do not, move on him. If he shows, he's to be kept under
surveillance.”

She scanned
the room. “To lock this cage tight, I have to wait for this asshole to spike
the drink and offer it to me. When that occurs, we take him -- possibly both of
them -- quick, quiet, clean. Questions?”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The last
question was asked and answered, and the troops dispersed. Surveillance and
placement in the park would begin at eleven hundred hours.

“The entire op
will be recorded. Every man will be wired, audio and video. We'll have all the
angles.” Still she paced her office, searching for any holes in her plan.

“You'll have
him in hand in a matter of hours,” Roarke told her.

“Yeah, I'll
have him.” She stopped, peered out the window. It was a beautiful day, full of
flowers and warmth and white puffy clouds. Springtime in New York. Come out and
play.

The park would
be full of people. That's what he wanted, she thought. He liked crowds. They
added to the thrill, the risk, the satisfaction.

Kill in plain
sight.

“I'll have
him,” she repeated. “But I want it quick and clean. Carrying the illegals isn't
enough. Mixing it with a drink isn't enough. But once he hands it to me, he's
done.”

She turned,
looked at the board. Looked at the faces.

“Finch make
any transmissions I should know about?”

“None
whatsoever.”

“Good. I
thought she was smart enough to be scared.”

The others,
she wondered, had they been frightened? Had there been a moment, one instant
when they'd understood enough to have the fear leaping into their throats,
clawing toward a scream?

“You saved
her, Eve. But for you, her face would be on that board.”

“It doesn't
feel like enough.” Peabody had said that, Eve remembered, right at the
beginning. “I have a lot of questions for Kevin Morano.”

“It's unlikely
the answers will satisfy you.”

“Having them
is sometimes the only satisfaction you get.” And she'd have to make it enough.
“I don't want you taking a weapon,” she said as she turned to Roarke.

“A weapon?” he
asked innocently. “Why, Lieutenant, an expert consultant, civilian, isn't
issued a weapon.”

“Issued, my
ass. You've got a fucking arsenal in your museum upstairs. Leave them there.”

“Of course. I
give you my word I won't take anything out of my fully registered and legal
collection.”

“Roarke -- I'm
warning you ...”

“It sounds
like your other consultants are on their way.” Giggles bounced into the room.
“Be sure to remind them about the weapon policy.”

“You want me
to have you searched before the op?”

“Only if you
do it, darling.” His voice was oh-so-warm, and very Irish. “I'm shy.”

Her pithy
response was drowned out as Mavis and company piled into the room.

“Hey, Dallas,
you missed the party.”

“So I hear.”

“We were
supposed to have a practice session,” Trina reminded her.

“I was, you
know, unavoidably detained.” She had to order herself to stand her ground when
Trina came up to stare at her face. “What?”

“You look
crappy.”

“Thanks.
That's just the look I was going for.”

“When this is
over, you're in for a full treatment, including relaxation therapy.”

“Actually,”
Eve said, “I'm going out of town right after -- “

“You can go
wherever the hell you like after the treatment. How am I supposed to use
you to drum up new clients when you go around looking like you spent a week in
a cave? You trying to ruin my reputation?”

“Yes. Actually
that's been my central goal since we met.”

“Funny. Let's
get started.”

“I'll just
leave you to it,” Roarke said.

“Where are you
going?” Eve made a grab for him, much like a drowning man would grab at a
dangling rope.

He evaded her
hand. “I have work.” And he turned his back on the love of his life, deserting
her without a backward glance.

“Now, you're
mine.” Trina smiled with lips dyed a summer grass green. “Strip.”

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

“Leonardo's
whipping up an outfit for you,” Mavis said sometime later. “He said you don't
have anything in your wardrobe that suits this look.”

“It just gets
better and better.” Eve kept reminding herself that she'd vowed to protect and
serve whatever the cost. Even if that was ninety minutes of allowing a crazy
woman to smooth, pack, and tuck God knew what all over her face and body.

“Coming
along.” With her green skinsuit covered with a bright pink smock, Trina
smoothed at the face putty she'd used to redefine Eve's chin. “How you holding
up?”

“Boobs feel
funny. Heavy.”

“That's
because you have some now. I know a guy who can do that permanent for you -- at
cost.”

“I'll keep my
own, thanks just the same.”

“Up to you.
Hold still. This needs a minute to set.”

“Why is it
taking so long? I can't believe those assholes spent hours a day prepping for
these dates.”

“Probably not.
Change your appearance that way in under an hour if you know what you're doing.
But we're not just changing yours. We're replicating as close as we can
somebody else's image.” Trina snapped the kiwi-scented gum she was chewing.
“It's lots trickier.”

“It's really
working, too.” In a smock of dizzying neon swirls of blue and yellow. Mavis
stood in as first assistant. “The whole shape of your face is different,
Dallas. You've lost the chin dent, the edge of your cheekbones. You look
softer. Wanna see?”

“No. Not till
it's done. How much longer? I've got to get in the field.”

“Final
inning's coming up. I've gotta blend this color, do the surface enhancements.”
Trina rubbed a bit of color into the back of Eve's hand, pursed her lips,
studied the computer image of Stefanie Finch. “What do you think?” she asked
Mavis.

“Need to pink
it up just a little.”

“Yeah.” She
added a dab to a testing bowl, blended. “Yeah, yeah, this is it. I'm a fucking
genius. Mav, better call Leonardo and tell him to hustle it with the outfit. I
need to know how much of her to cover with this.”

“As little as
possible.” Eve begged.

“Relax your
face. I'm going to start there. This is a nice face,” she added as she went to
work. “Pretty and all. Yours is actually the more interesting of the two,
though.”

“Golly, Trina,
I'm all atingle.”

“If you took
basic care of it, it would last you another fifty-sixty years without serious
sculpting. 'Cause you got good bones.”

Across the
room, Mavis was cooing into the house 'link. It seemed to Eve she and Leonardo
couldn't have a conversation with each other without cooing.

“White
skinsuit, red swish,” Mavis announced. “Elbow sleeves, scooped neck to
mid-boobs. He'll have it down in five.”

“What the
hell's a swish?” Eve wanted to know.

“No talking
till I finish the lip area. Very sexy,” Trina said to Mavis. “Good choice with
this coloring. Can you do the extremities?”

“Frigid! I
just love playing with the goop. I have to take your wedding ring, Dallas. I'll
give it to Roarke.”

Instinctively,
Eve curled her fingers in protest, a gesture that made Mavis's romantic heart
sigh. “Don't worry.” She gave Eve's hand a part. “I remember when he put this on
you the first time. Almost a year ago. It was the best wedding.”

Eve relaxed
again, listened to Mavis's chatter with half an ear.

She knew
Leonardo came in by Mavis's purr of greeting. Then there was cooing and kissy
sounds.

“Wonderful
job, Trina.” His rich voice sounded very close to Eve's head, which told her
he'd bent down to study the work. “I wouldn't have recognized her. Did you
decide on the silitrex or the plastisinal base?”

“Silitrex.
More pliable, and she doesn't need it to last that long.”

Eve opened one
eye when a finger poked at her cheek. And saw Leonardo's wide, golden face
looming in front of hers. “Am I done yet?” she asked him.

He smiled,
eyes warming, teeth flashing white and gold. “Almost. You're going to be
pleased. What about the eyes?” he asked Trina.

“Temp gels.
We'll get them close. She'll wear some amber sunshades, too.” She peered at
something over Eve's shoulder. “Great outfit. I've got a lip dye that matches
that red, and we'll use crisp tones on the cheeks and eyes. Can you guys handle
doing her nails?”

“I don't need
my nails done.”

“Woman goes on
a hot date, she does her nails. Fingers and toes,” Trina added. “Fifteen more
minutes,” she promised.

It took nearly
twice that, and Eve was considering making a break for it. But since she was
surrounded, she stayed put and nearly wept with relief when Trina fixed on the
wig she'd dyed and styled the night before.

Eve sat while
her three keepers took several steps back and studied her.

“I've got one
thing to say,” Trina began. “I am good.” She snapped a finger. “Wardrobe and
accessories.”

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

Two hours
after the transformation began, Eve stood in front of the mirror Leonardo
hauled in. After the first jolt, she settled down to study and critique.

She knew what
a swish was now. It was exactly that -- a swish of material that swirled down
in a kind of open-fronted skirt. This one was murderous red and fell to
mid-calf. It did nothing, as far as she could see, to make the skinsuit more
modest. Nothing could. They were called skinsuits for a reason, the same reason
she never wore the damn things.

Might as well
walk around naked.

The body she
was walking around in was curvier than her own. Despite the fact the breasts
weren't hers, she felt uncomfortable having them so prominently displayed.
Another inch of flesh, and she'd have had to cite herself for indecent
exposure.

Her hair was
lighter, longer. Sort of a subtle blonde that scooped into points at her chin.
A rounded, undented chin, with soft and rounded cheeks. Her mouth didn't look
quite so wide with those cheeks, that chin. Still, with the rich red dye, it
practically popped off the face.

Her eyes were
hazel with hints of green. But the expression in them was all Eve.

“Okay.” She
nodded, watched Stefanie's face nod back at her. “You are good. But let's give
it the big test.”

She crossed
the room, walked into Roarke's office.

He was on the
'link, had a laser fax coming in and a holo-blueprint of a building hovering
over his desk. “I'll approve the changes to the first level. Yes. But I'll need
to see...” He trailed off, stared for a full five seconds. “Sorry, Jansen, I'll
have to get back to you.” He ended transmission, tapped something that had the
holo evaporating.

He rose,
walked to her, around her. “Amazing. Truly. Are you in there?” he murmured then
looked into her eyes. “Ah yes. There you are.”

“What tips
it?”

“Trina may be
a miracle worker, but she can't do anything about those cop's eyes.” When she
frowned, Roarke lifted her chin with his hand. “Feels very natural,” he added
with a gentle rub of his thumb.

“Check the
boobs,” Trina invited from behind Eve. “They're the latest temps. Can't tell
them from God-made. Go ahead. Take a squeeze.”

“Well, if you
insist.” Ignoring Eve's growl of warning, he cupped the breasts. “You feel very
... healthy.”

“They come off
the minute I take him down. So don't get any sick ideas.”

“They taste
real, too,” Trina assured him.

Roarke's
eyebrow arched. “Really?”

“Don't even
think about it.” She slapped his hands away. “Give me the verdict. Will he buy
it?”

“Hook and
line, Lieutenant. You might want to adjust your gait a bit. Saunter rather than
stride.”

“Saunter.
Check.”

“And try not
to look at him as though you already had him in Interview. You're going to a
picnic in the park. Try to remember what that's like.”

“I've never
had a picnic in the park.”

He skimmed a
finger down her chin, just where the dent would be. “We'll have to fix that.
Soon.”

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

She rode to
the north end of the park in the surveillance vehicle, leaning over Feeney's
shoulder as he did the checks.

“Running
sweeps. Baxter.”

The first of
Feeney's screens showed a fountain fed by a leaping dolphin. She could hear the
tinkle of water against water, snatches of conversations as people strolled,
and Baxter's whiny plea for contributions. The screen jumped slightly as he
circled.

“Doing your
gimp routine, Baxter?” Eve demanded.

“Roger that,”
he replied.

“Just
remember, whatever you take in from the suckers goes in the Greenpeace fund.”

As Feeney
moved from man to man, she gauged the situation. As she'd predicted, the park
was a popular place on a bright June afternoon. She watched a trio of teachers
herding a school group like woolly sheep through the botanical gardens.

“Possible
sighting.” Peabody's voice came over the speakers. “Male, Caucasian,
shoulder-length black hair, wearing tan trousers, light blue shirt. Carrying
wicker picnic basket and black leather bag. Heading east on path, Endangered
Species section.”

“I see him.”
Eve studied the man on-screen. Now that was sauntering, she decided, watching
the way he swung the basket gently at his side. And on his hand was a bicolored
gold ring set with a ruby. “Go in on the ring,” she told Feeney.

He blocked,
magnified. And she saw the dragon's head carved into the stone.

“That's a
positive ID. We got our man. Keep him in sight. Baxter, he'll be moving into
your sector.”

“Copy that.
I'm on him.”

“Peabody, you
and Roarke maintain your distance. He's thirty minutes early,” she said. “Needs
time to get set up. Let's give it to him.”

“Trueheart's
got a visual,” McNab said from his bank of screens. “Possible suspect moving
south now. He's heading toward the arranged area. Looks like we've got him.”

“Maintain
distance,” Eve warned. “Trueheart, angle a little to your left. Perfect. Let's
watch the show.”

He moved off
the path onto the grassy area designated for picnics. Two other couples were
there before him, as well as a trio of women, obviously taking a long lunch
break from work. One lone male lay flat on his back, sunbathing. At Eve's
order, he rolled lazily to his side, propped an e-book by his elbow and gave
her a new angle on Kevin Morano.

Kevin paused,
turning his head right and left as he studied the area. He opted for shade,
turning for the largest tree where sun dappled softly on the grass. There he
set down basket and bag.

“I want all
available eyes on him,” Eve announced. Then she hissed as she saw the visual
from Peabody's recorder. “Peabody, Roarke, not too close.”

“Lovely spot
for a picnic.” Roarke's voice was warm and cheerful. “Just let me spread this
blanket, darling. I wouldn't want you to get grass stains on that lovely
outfit.”

“Blanket? I
didn't clear that,” Eve began.

“This sure is
a surprise.” Peabody gave what Eve recognized as an uneasy laugh. “I wasn't
expecting a picnic.”

“What's life
without some surprise?”

She saw
Roarke's face and the amused look on it as he spread a blanket on the ground.

Several feet
away, Kevin mirrored the move.

“Such a pretty
spot,” Roarke continued, then lowered his voice as he sat. “We can enjoy the
view without getting in anyone's way.”

“I want no
interference from any location. No one, repeat no one, moves in without my
signal.”

“Naturally.
Champagne, sweetheart?”

“Peabody, you
take one sip and you're busted to Traffic.”

Even as she
spoke, she watched Kevin. He opened the basket, removed three pink roses, and
laid them on the blanket. He lifted wineglasses, held them to the sunlight to
watch them sparkle. He opened a bottle of white. Poured a glass.

“Okay, okay,
add the chaser, you son of a bitch.”

But instead he
raised the glass in a kind of self-toast and sipped.

Then he turned
his wrist, checked the time. Taking out his pocket-link, he made a call.

“Up your
audio, Peabody,” Eve ordered. “Let's see if we can get an ear on him.”

She heard
birds, conversations, giggles, a child's war hoop. Before she could demand it,
Feeney was filtering.

Kevin's voice
came clearly. “Couldn't be better. Ten people in the immediate area, so that's
a point for public venue. I suspect we'll have to pass some park police on the
way out, bonus points there.” He paused, laughed. A very young, very happy
sound. “Yes, having her do that to me in broad daylight in a public park would
certainly shoot me into the lead. I'll let you know.''

He tucked the
'link away, then sat a moment, breathing deep, admiring the view.

“Just a game,”
Eve murmured. “It's going to be a pleasure taking these bastards down.”

He continued
his preparations, moving a bit faster now, taking out a cold pack, opening it
to a presentation of caviar. He set out toast points and the accompaniments.
Foie gras, cold lobster, fresh berries.

“Gotta admit,
the guy knows how to set out a spread.”

“Shut up,
McNab,” Eve muttered.

He sampled a
berry, then another. As he nibbled, she saw his eyes change. There, she
thought. There it was. The coolness, the calculation. It remained steady as he
poured the second glass of wine.

He watched and
watched carefully as he opened the black bag. He reached in, brought his hand
out again with the palm facing his body. And casually, he held his hand over
the second glass, tipped.

She saw, in
Roarke's recorder, a thin trickle of liquid.

“Bingo. He's
ready for her. I'm coming in. Take third stage positions. Report any possible
sightings of alternate target.”

She moved to
the rear doors. “I'm under.”

“Take him
down, kid,” Feeney said and kept his eyes glued to the screens.

She stepped
out into the sun and warmth. When she caught herself striding, she did her best
to saunter. She was barely into the park when a lunch-hour jogger trotted up to
her.

“Hey,
beautiful. How about a little run?”

“How about you
back off before I knock you on your pudgy ass?”

“That's my
cop,” Roarke said softly in her ear as she kept walking.

She spotted
Baxter under a stringy tangle of dirt-colored hair, a torn T-shirt, and
drooping trousers that were both smeared with what looked like egg substitute
and ketchup.

Most park
patrons were giving him a wide berth. As she neared him, she caught the whiff
of old sweat and stale brew mixed with urine.

The man really
got into character, she thought.

When she
passed him she got a wheezy wolf whistle.

“Bite me.”

“I dream of
it,” he said behind his hand. “Night and day.”

In the five
minutes it took her to move through the park, she was approached with
propositions four times.

“You might
want to take the I'll-kick-your-ass-then-eat-it look off your face,
Lieutenant,” McNab suggested. “Most guys'd be a little put off by it.”

“I've never
been,” Roarke commented. “Caviar?” he said to Peabody.

“Well... I
guess.”

Eve fixed what
she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face, and thought about the nice
little chat she'd be having with her personnel, including her expert consultant,
civilian.

Then the view
opened; she saw Kevin. Everything else was set aside.

He saw her as
well. A slow, boyish smile crossed his face, just a little shy at the edges. He
got to his feet, hesitated, then walked to her.

“Make my
dreams come true and tell me you're Stefanie.”

“I'm Stefanie.
And you're ...”

“Wordsworth.”
He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “You're even lovelier than I imagined.
Than I hoped.”

“And you're
everything I thought you'd be.” She left her hand in his. Dating had never been
one of her strong suits, but she'd planned carefully how she would behave, what
she would say. “I hope I'm not late.”

“Not at all. I
was early. I wanted ...” He gestured toward the picnic. “I wanted everything to
be perfect.”

“Oh. It looks
wonderful. You've gone to so much trouble.”

“I've looked
forward to this for a long time.” He led her to the blanket. She passed within
a foot of Roarke. “Caviar!” she said as she sat. “You certainly know how to
throw a picnic.”

She leaned
over, turned the bottle of wine around so she could see the label. The same
he'd used with Bryna Bankhead. “My favorite.” She made her lips curve. “It's as
if you could read my mind.”

“I've felt
that way, ever since we first corresponded. Getting to know you online, I felt
as if I knew you. Had always known you. Was somehow meant to.”

“This guy is good,”
McNab breathed in her ear.

“I felt the
connection, too,” Eve said, using Stefanie's words to her as a guide. “The
letters, the poetry we shared. All the fabulous stories about your travels.”

“I think ...
it's fate. 'It is he that saith not Kismet.'“

Oh, shit, Eve thought. Mind scrambling, she opened her mouth.
And Roarke whispered the rest of the quote in her ear. “ 'It is he who knows
not fate,'“ she repeated. “What do you think fate has in store for us,
Wordsworth?”

“Who can say?
But I can't wait to find out.”

Give me the
damn wine, you worthless, murdering bastard. But instead, he handed her the roses.

“They're
lovely.” She made herself sniff them.

“Somehow I
knew they'd suit you best. Pink rosebuds. Soft, warm. Romantic.” He lifted his
own glass, toyed with the stem. “I've looked forward to giving them to you, to
having this time with you. Shall we have a toast?”

“Yes.” She
continued to look into his eyes, while she willed him to pick up the glass, to
put it into her hand. Trying for flirtatious, she brushed the rosebuds against
her cheek.

And he picked
up the glass. He put it into her hand.

“To fateful
beginnings.”

“And even
better,” she said, “to destined endings.” She brought the glass to her lips,
saw his gaze greedily follow it. And the shadow of irritation smoke over them
as she lowered it again without drinking.

“Oh, just one
second.” She let out a quick laugh, set the wine aside, and opened her purse.
“There's just one thing I want to do first.”

With her free
hand, she took his, then pulling out the restraints, snapped them on. “Kevin
Morano, you're under arrest -- “

“What? What
the hell is this?” When he tried to yank away she had the pleasure of knocking
him flat, rolling him, and with her knee in the small of his back, securing the
restraints.

“For the
murder of Bryna Bankhead, the attempted murder of Moniqua Cline, and accessory
in the murder of Grace Lutz.”

“What the hell
are you talking about? What are you doing?” When he tried to buck she simply
held her weapon to his head. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm
Lieutenant Eve Dallas. Remember it. I'm your goddamn fate. My name is Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve,” she repeated because her gorge wanted to rise into her throat.
“And I've stopped you.”

So what? a voice whispered in her ear. Her father's voice. Another's
coming. Another always is.

For an
instant, just an instant, her finger twitched on her weapon. Tempted.

She heard the
voices behind and above her -- the alarmed buzzing of civilians, the clipped
orders from her team. And she felt Roarke there, just there at her side.

Rising, she
dragged Kevin up. “Looks like this wasn't such a fucking picnic after all. You
have the right to remain silent,” she began.

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

She escorted
him to transport herself. She needed to. He wasn't remaining silent. Instead he
babbled about mistaken identity, miscarriages of justice, and his influential
family.

He wasn't yet
babbling for his lawyer, but he would. Eve was sure of it. She'd be lucky to
have fifteen minutes in Interview with him before his terror and shock settled
back into calculation.

“I've got to
go in, get started on him right away.”

“Eve -- “

She shook her
head at Roarke. “I'm all right. I'm okay.” But she wasn't. There were drums
banging inside her skull. In defense she dragged off the wig, scooped her hand
through her hair. “I've got to get this crap off me. They should be finished
booking him by the time I get back to normal.”

“Trina's going
to meet you at Central, give you a hand with it.”

“Good. I
guess. I'll see you at home.”

“I'm coming in
with you.”

“There's no
point -- “

“In discussing
it,” he finished. Nor in telling her he was going to administer the next round
of meds Summerset had given him. “Why don't I drive you? We'll get there
faster.”

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

It took forty
minutes to get back into her own skin. Eve could only think Roarke had said
something to Trina. The woman didn't utter a single complaint about dismantling
her masterpiece so soon, nor did she launch into a lecture on face and body
maintenance.

When Eve was
blissfully rinsing her face in cold water, Trina shuffled her feet. “I helped
do something really important, right?”

Face dripping,
Eve turned her head. “Yeah, you did. We couldn't have brought this down today
without you.”

“Gives me a
rush.” She blushed. “Guess you get that a lot. You going to go squeeze his
balls now?”

“Yeah, I'm
going to go squeeze his balls.”

“Give them an
extra twist for me.” She opened the door, surprised at seeing Roarke walk into
the bathroom. Trina tapped the sign on the door. “You definitely ain't no
woman, sweet buns.” With a wink, she headed out.

“She's right,
you definitely ain't no woman. Even at Central, we have certain standards of
behavior, and guys don't come into the women's toilet facilities.”

“I thought
you'd prefer a little privacy for this.” He took a packet, pills, and the
dreaded pressure syringe out of the small bag he carried.

“What?” She
backed up. “Stay away from me, you sadist.”

“Eve, you need
your next dose.”

“I do not.”

“Tell me --
look at me -- tell me you don't have a massive headache, in addition to body
aches, and that your own sweet buns aren't starting to drag. Lying to me,” he
continued before she could speak, “is just going to piss me off enough so I
gain twisted pleasure in forcing the meds on you. Which we both know from
experience I can do.”

She gauged the
distance to the door. She'd never make it. “I don't want the shot.”

“Well, that's
a pity, as you're getting it. Don't put us through another round like this
morning. Be a brave little soldier now, and roll up your sleeve.”

“I hate you.”

“Yes, I know.
We've added a bit of flavoring to the liquid packet. Raspberry.”

“Gee. My
mouth's just watering.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

She was
rolling up her other sleeve as she walked toward Interview Room A. Apparently,
it wasn't just her car that was having an electronic rebellion. Climate control
was on the fritz in this section, and the air was hot, stuffy, and violently
scented with bad coffee.

Peabody was
waiting outside the door, perspiring lightly in full uniform.

“He whining
for a lawyer yet?”

“Not yet.
Sticking to the mistaken identity story.”

“Beautiful.
He's going to be an idiot.”

“Sir, in my
opinion, he thinks we're the idiots.”

“Better and
better. Come on, let's do this.” Eve pushed open the door. Kevin sat at the
single table at one of the two chairs. He was sweating as well, and not so
delicately. He looked over as Eve came in, and his lips trembled.

“Thank God. I
was afraid I'd just been left here and forgotten. There's been some horrible
mistake, ma'am. I was having a picnic with a woman I met online, a woman I knew
only as Stefanie. Suddenly, she went crazy. She said she was the police, and
then I was brought here.”

He spread his
hand, a gesture of reason and puzzlement. “I don't know what's going on.”

“I'll just
bring you up to speed.” She drew out a chair, straddled it. “But calling me
crazy isn't going to endear you to me, Kevin.”

He stared.
“I'm sorry? I don't even know you.”

“Now, Kevin,
what a thing to say after you gave me those pretty flowers and quoted poetry to
me. Men, Peabody, what are you going to do?”

“Can't live
with them, can't beat them with a stick.”

Kevin's eyes
darted from one face to the other. “You? It was you in the park? I don't
understand.”

“I told you to
remember my name. Engage recorder,” she said. “Interview with suspect Kevin
Morano, regarding charges of murder in the first in the case of Bryna Bankhead,
accessory to murder in the case of Grace Lutz, attempted murder in the cases of
Moniqua Cline and Stefanie Finch. Additional charges of sexual assault, rape,
illegals possession, administering illegals to persons without consent, also
filed. Interview conducted by Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also present, Peabody,
Officer Delia. Mr. Morano has been informed of his rights. Isn't that so,
Kevin?”

“I don't -- “

“Did you
receive the Revised Miranda warning, Kevin?”

“Yes, but -- “

“Do you
understand your rights and obligations as contained in that warning?”

“Of course,
but -- “

She made a
mildly impatient sound, held up a finger. “Don't be in such a hurry.” She
stared at him, went silent. When he licked his lips, opened them, she wagged a
finger at him again. And watched a single line of sweat drip down his temple.
“Hot in here,” she said conversationally. “They're working on the climate
control. Must be pretty miserable under that wig and face putty. You want to
ditch them?”

“I don't know
what you -- “

She merely
reached over, gave the wig a quick jerk, then tossed it to Peabody. “I bet that
feels cooler.”

“It's not a
crime to wear hair alternatives.” He raked unsteady fingers through his
short-cropped hair.

“You wore a
different one the night you killed Bryna Bankhead. Another still the night you
tried to kill Moniqua Cline.”

He looked Eve
dead in the eyes. “I don't know those women.”

“No, you
didn't know them. They were nothing to you. Just toys. Did it amuse you to
seduce them with poetry and flowers, with candlelight and wine, Kevin? Did it
make you feel sexy? Manly? Maybe you can't get it up unless the woman's drugged
and helpless. You can't get a boner unless it's rape.”

“That's
ridiculous.” A ripple of anger passed over his face. “Insulting.”

“Well, pardon
the hell out of me. But when a guy has to rape a woman to get off, it tells me
he can't do the job otherwise.”

His chin
lifted a fraction. “I have never raped a woman in my life.”

“I bet you
believe that. They wanted it, didn't they? Once you slipped a little Whore into
their wine, they were practically begging you for it. But you only did it to
loosen them up.” Eve rose, walked around the table. “Just priming the pump. Guy
like you doesn't have to rape women. You're young, handsome, rich, sophisticated.
Educated.”

She leaned
over from behind him, put her mouth close to his ear. “But it's boring, isn't
it? Guy's entitled to a little extra zip. And women? Hell, they're all whores
under the skin. Like your mother, for instance.”

He cringed
away from her. “What are you talking about? My mother is a highly regarded and
highly successful businesswoman.”

“Who got
knocked up in a lab. Did she even know your father, I wonder? Did it matter to
her once she was revved to go? How much did they pay her to drop the suit and
complete the pregnancy? She ever tell you?”

“You have no
right to speak to me this way.” His voice was thick with tears.

“Were you
looking for Mommy in those women, Kevin? Did you want to fuck her, punish her,
or both?”

“That's
disgusting.”

“There, I knew
we'd hit a point of agreement. In the end she sold herself, didn't she? No
difference, really, between her and those other women. And all you did was
bring out their true natures. They were cruising for it on the web. Got what
they asked for. And then some. Is that what you and Lucias figured?”

He jerked, and
his breath hitched. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not going to
listen to any more of this. I want to see your superior.”

“Whose idea
was it to kill them? It was his, wasn't it? You're not a violent man, are you?
Bryna, that was an accident, wasn't it? Just bad luck. That might help you out
some, Kevin. Might help you out a little with Bryna being accidental. But
you'll have to work with me on that.”

“I told you. I
don't know any Bryna.”

She whirled
until her face was pushed into his. “Your pants are on fire, asshole. Look at
me. We've got you cold. All the goodies in your little black bag, the illegal
substance you slipped into the wine. We had you under surveillance, fully
recorded from the time you stepped into the park. Heard you talking to your pal
about the points you were going to rack up. And you're real photogenic, Kevin.
I bet the jury thinks so, too, when they see the disc of you slipping the
illegal into the wine. I bet they'll be so goddamn impressed they'll give you,
oh, I'd say three life sentences -- no possibility of parole -- on an off
planet penal colony. A nice concrete cage to call your own.”

She hammered
it at him while he stared at her with horror creeping over his face. “Three
squares a day. Oh not the squares you're used to,” she added, fingering the
material of his shirt. “But they'll keep you alive. A long, long time. And you
know what happens to rapists in prison? Especially pretty ones. They'll all try
you out, then they'll fight over you and try you out some more. They'll fuck
you half to death, Kevin. And the more you beg them to stop, the more you
plead, the harder they'll ram into you.”

She
straightened, stared into the two-way glass, into the nightmare that lived in
her own eyes. That, crawled in her own belly.

“If you're
lucky,” she said, “somebody named Big Willy will make you his bitch and keep
the others off you. Feeling lucky, Kevin?”

“This is
harassment. This is intimidation.”

“This is
reality,” she snapped. “This is fate, this is destiny. This is your goddamn
kismet, pal. You trolled for women in online chats. Poetry chats. That's where
you found Bryna Bankhead. You developed a relationship with her while using the
name Dante. And working with your friend and fellow creep, Lucias Dunwood, you
arranged to meet her.”

She paused,
let it sink in. “You sent her flowers, pink roses, at work. You spent some time
watching her on her day off. You used a unit in the cyber-joint across the
street. We got you nailed there. You know, we've got a whole frigging division
of cyber-geeks on the payroll, Kev. I'll tell you a little secret.”

She eased in
again, dropped her voice to a conspirator's whisper. “You're not as good as you
think you are. Not there, not at the joint on Fifth either. You left prints.”

She watched
his lips tremble like a child about to cry. “Anyway,” she said, “back to Bryna
Bankhead. You met her at the Rainbow Room. Coming back to you yet, Kevin? She
was a pretty woman. You had drinks. Or you did, and she had Whore you mixed
with her wine. When she was primed with it, you went back to her place. Gave
her a little more, just in case.”

She slapped
her hands on the table, leaned in. “You turned on music, you lit the candles,
you tossed fucking pink rose petals on the bed. And you raped her. To give it
all a little more kick, you fed her some Wild Rabbit. Her system couldn't take
it, and she died. Died right there in the bed of roses. Scared you, didn't it?
Pissed you off. What the hell did she mean by dying and messing up your plans?
You threw her off the terrace, threw her out on the street like she was
garbage.”

“No.”

“Did you watch
her fall, Kevin? I don't think so. You were done with her. Had to cover your
ass, didn't you? Run home to Lucias and ask him what to do.”

She
straightened, turned away, strolled over and got herself a cup of water. “He
runs you, doesn't he? You haven't got the spine to run yourself.”

“No one runs
me. Not Lucias, not you, not anyone. I'm a man. My own man.”

“Then it was
your idea.”

“No, it was --
I have nothing to say. I want my lawyer.”

“Good.” She
eased a hip down on the table. “I was hoping you'd say that because once you
bring the lawyers in, I don't have to work with you toward any sort of deal.
I've got to tell you, Kevin, just the idea of making a deal with you was making
me sick to my stomach. And I've got a really strong stomach, right, Peabody?”

“Titanium
steel, sir.”

“Yep, that's
me.” Eve gave her stomach a little pat. “But you managed to churn it. Now I'm
all steady again picturing you spending the rest of your pitiful life in a cage,
without your pretty suits, all snuggled up with Big Willy.” She pushed off the
table. “When I have Lucias sitting where you're sitting now, I'll get a little
sick again, working with him. Because he's going to go for a deal and roll
right over on you. What are the current odds on that in the pool, Peabody?”

“Three to
five, on Dunwood, sir.”

“I better
place my bet. Let's get you that lawyer, Kevin. Break in Interview, due to
suspect's request for representation.” She turned for the door.

“Wait.”

Her eyes,
January ice, met Peabody's. “Something on your mind, Kevin?”

“I just
wondered ... strictly out of curiosity, what you mean by a deal.”

“Sorry, I
can't get into that as you've called for your lawyer.”

“The lawyer
can wait.”

Gotcha, Eve thought, and turned back. “Record on. Continuation
of Interview, same subjects. Please repeat that, Kevin, for the record.”

“The lawyer
can wait. I'd like to know what you mean by a deal.”

“I'm going to
need a nausea pill.”,. She sighed, sat again. “Okay. You know what you've got
to do, Kevin? You've got to come clean, tell me how it all happened. I need
chapter and verse. And you're going to have to show me some good faith and some
sincere remorse. You pull that off, and I'll go to bat for you. Recommend that
you're given better facilities, separated from the general population of
butt-fuckers.”

“I don't
understand? What sort of deal is that? You think I'm going to go to jail?”

“Oh, Kevin,
Kevin.” She sighed. “I know you're going over. What happens to you after you're
there is up to you.”

“I want
immunity.”

“And I want to
sing show tunes on Broadway. Neither one of us have a chance in hell of
realizing those precious dreams. We got your DNA, you stupid putz. You didn't
suit up for your parties. We got your juice, your prints. And you know that
little sample they took from you at Booking? They're running it right now. It's
going to match, Kevin, we both know it's going to match what you left behind in
Bryna and Moniqua. Once it does, once I have the DNA match in my hot little
hand, play time's over. I'll put you down like a sick dog, and all the lawyers
in all the land won't be able to help you.”

“You have to
give me something. A plea bargain, a way out. I have money -- “

Her hand
whipped out, snatched his shirtfront. “Was that a bribe, Kevin? Am I adding
bribing a cop to your list of credits?”

“No, no, I
just... I need some help here.” He tried to calm himself, to sound reasonable,
cooperative. “I can't go to prison. I don't belong in prison. It was just a
game. A contest. It was all Lucias's idea. It was an accident.”

“A game, a
contest, someone else's idea, an accident.” She shook her head. “Is this
multiple choice?”

“We were
bored, that's all. We were bored and needed something to do! We were just having
a little fun, a kind of re-enactment of his bastard grandfather's great
experiment. Then it went wrong. It was an accident. She wasn't supposed to
die.”

“Who wasn't
supposed to die, Kevin?”

“That first
woman. Bryna. I didn't kill her. It just happened.”

She leaned
back now. “Tell me how it happened, Kevin. Tell me how it just happened.”

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

An hour later,
Eve stepped out of Interview. “A miserable, pusboil on the ass of humanity.”

“Yes, sir, he
is. You wrapped him up tight,” Peabody added. “A platoon of lawyers won't be
able to poke so much as a pinhole in that confession. He's gone.”

“Yeah. The
other boil won't break so easy. Alert the team, Peabody. Same personnel as the
park. I'm getting a warrant for Dunwood. They deserve to be in on act two.”

“You got it.
Dallas?”

“What?”

“Do you really
want to sing show tunes on Broadway?”

“Doesn't
everyone?” She pulled out her communicator, prepared to request her warrant. It
beeped in her hand. “Dallas.”

“My office,”
Whitney ordered. “Now.”

“Yes, sir.
What is he, psychic? Round up the crew, Peabody. I want to move on Dunwood
within the hour.”

With the
interview on her mind and the anticipation of getting her hands on Lucias hot
in her blood, she walked into Whitney's office. She'd been prepared to give him
her report orally. Her plans changed when she saw Renfrew and another man in
Whitney's office.

Face
impassive, Whitney remained behind his desk. “Lieutenant, Captain Hayes. I
believe you and Detective Renfrew have already met.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Detective
Renfrew is here with his captain. He's considering filing a formal complaint re
your conduct in the Theodore McNamara investigation, of which he is primary of
record. In hopes to avoid any such action, I've asked you to come here so that
the matter can be discussed.”

There was a
dull roar inside her head, a low burn deep in her gut. “Let him file.”

“Lieutenant,
neither I nor this department have a desire to wade through the mess of a
complaint if it can be avoided.”

“I don't give
a damn what you or the department wants.” Her tone bit and had something
unidentifiable flashing in Whitney's eyes. “You file your complaint, Renfrew.
File it, and I'll finish you.”

“I told you
how it was.” Renfrew bared his teeth. “Got no respect for the badge, no respect
for fellow officers. She comes onto my crime scene throwing her weight around,
pulling rank, undermining my investigation. Questioned my crime scene unit
after I requested her to remove herself before she contaminated the scene. Goes
behind my back to the ME getting data on a body that's not hers.”

Whitney held
up a hand to halt Renfrew's tirade. “Your response to this, Lieutenant?”

“You want my
response to this? I'll give it to you.” Funous, she yanked a disc out of her
pocket, slapped it onto the desk. “There's my response to this. On record. You
idiot,” she said to Renfrew. “I was going to let it slide. That was my mistake.
Nobody should let cops like you slide. You think the badge is some sort of
protection for you? Some sort of hammer you can toss around? It's your fucking
responsibility, your goddamn duty, not your cushion and not your weapon.”

Hayes made a
move to speak. Whitney silenced him by lifting a single finger.

“Don't you
tell me about duty.” Renfrew braced his hands on his thighs, leaned his body
forward. “Everybody knows you're out for other cops, Dallas. You're in IAB's
pocket. The rat squad's poster girl.”

“I don't have
to justify what I did about the One-two-eight to you. It seems you've forgotten
cops were dying. Want their names, because I've got them in my head. I stood
over them, Renfrew, you didn't. You want a piece of me over that, you should've
taken it outside the department, off a homicide investigation. You want a shot
at me, you don't take it over the dead we're supposed to stand up for. I asked
you to reach out, I asked you to share information vital to both our
investigations so we could do the damn job.”

“My
robbery-homicide hasn't been connected to your sex whacks. And you've got no
business on my scene without authority. You've got no right recording on that
scene, and anything in such a recording is bogus.”

“You pompous,
egotistical, ignorant fuckhead. You don't have a robbery-homicide. I've got one
half of your murder team in the tank. I've got a full confession, on record,
that includes the murder of Theodore McNamara.”

Renfrew leaped
out of his chair. “You go around me to bring my suspect into interview?”

“My suspect,
brought in for questioning re my investigation, which as I told you, asshole,
is connected with yours. If you hadn't been so busy taking the easy way, so
tight-assed about cooperating, you'd have been part of the op that brought him
in. Get out of my face, and get out of it now, or I'll take that badge you
don't deserve and make you eat it.”

“That's
enough, Lieutenant.”

“It's not
enough.” She whirled back to Whitney. “It's not enough. I just listened to a
twenty-two-year-old boy tell me how he and his sick friend were bored and made
up a game. A dollar a point, a goddamn dollar a point for the one who bagged
the most women in the most inventive ways. They drugged them, raped them,
killed them, for the satisfaction of being the top stud. And when McNamara
realized what his grandson and his playmate were doing, when he confronted them,
they bashed his brains in, kept him alive with a stimulant, stripped him naked,
bashed him again, and tossed him in the river where he had the bad luck to be
assigned to this disgrace.

“Three people
are dead, and one's in the hospital fighting to come back. Because one cop
decides to take a personal dislike to another, there might have been more. So
it's not enough. It's never going to be enough.”

“You think you
can hang your screwups on me,” Renfrew began.

“Stand down,
Detective.” Hayes got slowly to his feet.

“Captain -- “

“I said stand
down. Now. There will be no complaint filed from my house. If Lieutenant Dallas
wishes to file -- “

“I have no
wish to file.”

Hayes inclined
his head. “Then you're a better man than I. I'd like to request a copy of that
disc, Commander.”

“Request
granted.”

“I'll consider
the contents of the recording and take such actions as are deemed appropriate.
Open your mouth, Renfrew, and I'll be filing myself. I want you to step
outside. That's an order.”

The insult
went deep enough to have him vibrating. “Yes, sir, but under protest.”

“So noted.”
Hayes waited until the door slammed. “My apologies, Commander Whitney, for
bringing this mess to your door, and for the unbecoming behavior of my
officer.”

“Your officer
needs discipline, Captain.”

“He needs a
kick in the ass, sir, and I can promise you he'll get one. My apologies to you
as well, Lieutenant.”

“Unnecessary,
Captain.”

“That's the
first thing you've said I disagree with since you walked in. Renfrew is a
problem child, but he is, for the moment, my problem child. I run a clean
house, Lieutenant, and take responsibility for any untidiness that works its
way in. Thank you for your time, Commander.”

He started for
the door, paused, and turned. “Lieutenant, Sergeant Clooney and I rookied
together. I went to see him after the events of last May came to light. He said
you were an untarnished badge and he was grateful you were the one to bring him
in. I don't know if that makes any difference to you, but it did to him.”

He nodded
again, stepped out, and closed the door quietly at his back.

When they were
alone, Whitney rose and walked to his AutoChef. “Coffee, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.
Thank you.”

“Sit down,
Dallas.”

“Commander, I
apologize for my disrespect and insubordination. My behavior was -- “

“Impressive,”
Whitney interrupted. “Don't spoil it by remembering who's in charge in this
room now.”

She winced and
searched for something to say. “I have no excuse.”

“I didn't ask
for one.” He brought his coffee back to his desk. “But if I required one I
might start by asking how much sleep you got last night.”

“I don't -- “

“Answer the
question.”

“A couple.”

“And the night
before?”

“I don't... I
can't say.”

“I told you to
sit down,” he reminded her. “Shall I make it an order?”

She sat.

“I've never
been a witness to you dressing down an officer -- heard rumors,” he added. “Now
I can safely say you've earned your rep. You did what had to be done with
Clooney and the One-twenty-eight. That doesn't mean you won't take flak for
it.”

“Understood,
sir.”

He studied her
face, and because he could see hints of fatigue, grief, anger, knew she was
running thin. “The badge doesn't make the man, Eve, it's the other way around.”

She blinked,
off balance by his use of her first name. “Yes, sir. I know.”

“You're
high-profile, professionally and personally. That kind of exposure and shine
causes jealousy and resentment in certain types. Renfrew's a prime example.”

“He doesn't
concern me, personally, Commander.”

“Glad to hear
it. You have Kevin Morano's confession.”

“Yes, sir.”
She started to rise, to give her oral, but Whitney gestured her back down.

“I don't
require a formal report at this time. I got the gist from your rant. Has the
warrant for Lucias Dunwood been issued?”

“Requested. It
should be waiting for me in my office.”

“Then go get
him, Lieutenant.” Whitney sipped his coffee as she got to her feet. “Contact me
when you've wrapped him up. We'll need to schedule a press conference after
which you're ordered to go home and use whatever method you choose to guarantee
you eight full hours' sleep.”

When she left,
Whitney picked up the disc, turned it in his hand. Light glinted from it.

An
untarnished badge, he thought. It was
a good description of her. Watching the light play, he contacted Chief Tibble
to make his own report.

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

It was
tempting to blow the doors on the brownstone and blast in with a full squad of
cops armed with riot guns and body armor. The circumstances of the case and the
weight of the charges gave her the option to do just that.

It would make
a splash, a blistering statement.

And it would
be completely self-indulgent.

Eve let the
fantasy fly away, and with only Peabody beside her, approached the door.

“All stations
manned and ready?”

“That's
affirmative,” Feeney said through her earpiece. “He tries to rabbit and gets
past you, we'll scoop him up.”

“Copy that.”
She glanced at Peabody. “He's not getting past us.”

“Not in this
life.”

Eve pressed
the bell, counted off seconds as she rocked on the balls of her feet. She'd
reached ten when the house droid opened the door.

“Remember me?”
She gave him a toothy smile. “I need to speak with Mr. Dunwood.”

“Yes,
Lieutenant. Please come in. I'll tell Mr. Dunwood you're here. May I offer you
some refreshment while you wait?”

“No, we're
set, thanks.”

“Very well.
Please make yourself comfortable.”

He walked
away, stiff and formal in his classic black uniform.

“Now if Roarke
would ditch Summerset and get a droid, I could be treated politely like that
every day.”

“Yeah.”
Peabody grinned. “You'd really hate it.”

“Who says?”

“Those who
know you best, sir.”

“I think I
know me best,” she countered. “What makes you say . .. hold that thought,” she
said when she saw Lucias turn into the foyer. “Mr. Dunwood.”

“Lieutenant.”
He'd dressed in black as well, had used just a hint of makeup to give his face
a grieving pallor. It had worked wonders on his mother that morning, and he had
no doubt it would set just the right tone with the cops. “You have some news
about my grandfather? I spent the morning with my mother, and she ...”

He trailed
off, looked away as if composing himself. “We'd both be grateful for any news.
Anything at all to help us make some sense out of our loss.”

“I think I can
help you with that. We already have someone in custody.”

He looked back
at her, an instant of surprise before it was masked. “I can't tell you what
this means to us. To have his killer brought to justice quickly.”

“Brightens my
day, too.” Indulgent, she told herself. She was being indulgent after
all. But what the hell. “Actually, there were two people responsible. One has
been charged, and an arrest of the second is imminent.”

“Two? Two
against a helpless old man.” He worked rage into his voice. “I want them to
suffer. I want them to pay.”

“We're riding
the same wave on that one. So let's get started. Lucias Dunwood, you're under
arrest.”

She whipped
out her weapon when he took a quick step back. “Oh, please,” she invited. “Keep
going. I didn't have the opportunity to use this on your pal, Kevin, and it's
made me twitchy.”

“You stupid
bitch.”

“I'll take the
bitch, but hey, which one of us is going into a cage? Stupid is as stupid does.
Hands up and behind your head. Now.”

He raised his
hands, and when she turned him to face the wall, made him move.

Maybe she let
him. Eve wasn't going to lie awake at night debating the point. But when he
shoved, she let her body flow back, gave him room to swing. And ducking under
the arch of his fist, rammed her own, twice, into his gut.

“Resisting
arrest,” she said when he fell to his hands and knees, retching. “Another mark
on your permanent record.” She nudged him flat with her foot, then put her boot
lightly on the back of his neck. “I won't add assaulting an officer because you
missed. Restrain this clown, Peabody, while I finish stating the charges
against him and read him his rights.”

He was
demanding a lawyer before she'd finished.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The sky was
still blue, a deep, dreamy evening blue, when she walked up the steps to her
own front door. For the first time in days her mind was clear enough to let the
sound of birdsong and the soft drift of flowers register.

She considered
just sitting down on the steps and drawing it in, all those sweet and simple
pleasures the world could offer. Remembering, taking the time to remember there
was more than death, more than blood and those who spilled it with the
selfishness of spoiled children made the difference between living and sinking.

Instead she
pinched off a sprig of the purple flower spilling out of an urn and went
inside. There was something she wanted more than fresh air.

Summerset took
one look at the blossom in her hand and scowled. “Lieutenant, the arrangements
in the urns are not cutting flowers.”

“I didn't cut
it. I snapped it off. Is he home?”

“In his
office. If you want a display of verbena, you can order one from one of the
greenhouses.”

“Blah, blah,
blah,” she said as she walked up the stairs. “Yak, yak, yak.”

Summerset
nodded with approval. It seemed the medications had put her back to normal.

Roarke was at
the window, holding a conversation on his headset. It seemed to be something
about a revision to the prototype of some new communication/data system, but
there was too much e-jargon for her to decipher. So she tuned out the words
themselves, and just listened to the flow of his voice.

The Irish in
it occasionally gave her a strange thrill, along with misty images of warriors
and fragrant fires. And poetry, she supposed. Maybe the female of the species
was just hardwired to react to certain stimuli.

Maybe in ten
or twenty years, she'd actually get used to it. To him.

The sun,
sinking in the sky, spilled in the window and drenched him in shimmering gold.
He'd tied back his hair, which made her think he'd been at something that had
required his hands and no distractions.

The light made
a halo around him they both knew he didn't deserve, but that looked incredibly
right.

He had the
screen on, and a news report was humming. His desk 'link beeped and was
ignored.

There was a
scent to the room that was money, that was power. That was Roarke. Inside her
rose a need basic as breath.

And he turned
to her.

With her eyes
locked on his she crossed the room, jerked him to her by his shirtfront, and
captured his mouth with hers.

In the headset
a voice continued to buzz in his ear, dim under the stirring of his own blood.
He caught her hips, pressed heat against heat.

“Later,” he
muttered into the headset, then pulled it off, tossed it aside. “Welcome home,
Lieutenant, and congratulations.” He lifted a hand to brush it over her hair.
“I caught your press conference on Seventy-five.”

“Then you know
it's over.” She offered the verbena. “Thanks for your help.”

“You're
welcome.” He sniffed the flower. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“As a matter
of fact.” She tugged the band out of his hair. “I've got another assignment for
you.”

“Really? My
schedule's a bit tight right now, but I want to do my civic duty.” He tucked
the little flower behind her ear. “What sort of assignment is it? And be
specific.”

“You want me
to be specific?”

“I do, yes.
Very ... very specific.”

With a laugh,
she boosted herself up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. “I want you
to get naked.”

“Ah, an
undercover assignment.” Bracing her hips, he started toward his office
elevator. “Is it dangerous?”

“It's deadly.
Neither of us may make it out alive.”

Inside the
elevator, he pressed her back against the wall. Felt the strength of her -- and
the yielding. “Master bedroom,” he ordered, then ravaged her mouth. “I live for
danger. Tell me more.”

“It involves a
lot of physical exertion. Timing ...” Her breath clogged when his teeth found
her throat. “Rhythm, coordination has to be perfect.”

“Working on
it,” he managed and swung her out of the elevator into the bedroom.

The cat,
stretched across the bed like a fat, furry rag, leaped up with a hissing
complaint when they dropped onto the mattress beside him. Roarke reached out,
gave him a light shove that sent him jumping down with a thud.

“This is no
place for civilians.”

With a snort
of laughter, Eve locked her arms tight around him. “Naked.” She raced kisses
over his face. “Get naked. I want to sink my teeth into you.”

Tugging at
clothes, they rolled over the bed. Her shirt tangled in her weapon harness,
making her curse breathlessly as she fought free of both. Their mouths met
again, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues that had the blood rushing hot
through her veins and her body plunging under his.

She tugged at
his shirt, yanking it down from his shoulders so she could dig her fingers into
that hard ripple of muscle and test strength to strength.

But he caught
her hands in his, drew her arms over her head. Stared down at her with those
depthless blue eyes until her own muscles began to quake.

“I love you.
Darling Eve. Mine.” He lowered his mouth to hers in a soft, soft kiss that
turned those trembling muscles to water.

His mouth left
hers to skim along her jaw, down the column of her throat. He would know, she
thought as her heart shuddered. He would know she needed more than the flash
and the fire. She needed the sweet and the simple.

She relaxed
and drew it in.

He felt her
open, surrender herself. There was, for him, no more powerful seduction than
the yielding of her to him, and to herself. When she accepted the tenderness
inside him, he found himself filled with bottomless wells of it.

Gently, his
lips slid over her skin, savoring the flavor. Gently, his hands played over her
body, cherishing the shape. Her heart beat thick under the glide of his tongue.
And she reached down to cradle his head against her when he nuzzled lazily at
her breast.

She smelled of
her shower at Central, of the practical soap available to her there. It made
him want to pamper her, to smooth away the harshness she was too accustomed to.
So his lips were like a balm over her flesh, teasing out the warmth before the
heat.

She drifted on
a cushion of sensation, sliding into pleasure so subtle, so soft, it wrapped
around her like mists. Her fingers threaded through his hair as the mists
became a river, and the river a quiet sea of bliss. With a sigh, she let
herself sink into it.

She heard him
murmur as he moved down her body, the Gaelic he used when he was most stirred.
It sounded like music, both exotic and romantic.

“What does it
mean?” Her voice was sleepy.

“My heart.
You're my heart.”

He traced a
line of kisses down her torso fascinated, always fascinated by the long, lean
line of her. So much strength and courage lived inside that whip-tight body. In
the heart, he thought as his hands whispered over her breasts. In the gut. He
rubbed his lips over her belly.

The muscles
quivered, and he heard the first unsteady catch of her breath.

Still he took
his time, his slow and torturous time until that catch of breath became a moan,
until that tough, toned body trembled.

When he took
her over, he felt her release spill through her, and into him.

And the sea
where she was drifting turned restless. Bliss became a craving and pleasure, a
deep and throbbing ache that pulsed through her like a hunger. She arched
against his busy mouth, crying out as her system erupted.

Desperate now,
he worked his way up her body, inciting a dozen fires, a riot of the pulses.
Maddening himself even as he maddened her. “Go up. Go up.” Breath heaving, he
drove his fingers into her, into the drenched heat. “I want to watch you.
Again.”

“God!” Her
eyes went wide and blind as the orgasm ripped through her.

As she
shuddered over the crest, he closed his mouth over hers, danced his tongue over
hers until her breath, his breath slowed. Thickened. Slid slowly, slowly inside
her.

Her eyes
cleared, deepened, held his. Love, like silvered velvet, shimmered over the red
haze of passion. She lifted a hand to his cheek as they moved together. The
rise and fall of lovers who loved. The sweet and the simple.

When her
pleasure peaked this time, it was like grace. He lowered his head, kissed away
the tear that spilled down her cheek.

“My heart,” he
said again, then pressed his face into her hair and poured himself into her.

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

She lay with
her body curled against his side. The light was going. The end of a long day.
“Roarke.”

“Hmm? You
should sleep for a bit.”

“I don't have
the words the way you do. I can never seem to find them when they matter most.”

“I know what
they are.” He toyed with the ends of her hair. “Turn your mind off, Eve, and
rest a while.”

She shook her
head, pushed up so she could look down at him. How could he be so perfect, she
thought, and still be hers?

“Say what you
said before again. The Irish thing. I want to say it back to you.”

He smiled.
Took her hand. “You'll never pronounce it.”

“Yes, I will.”

Still smiling,
he said it slowly, waited for her to fumble through. But her eyes stayed steady
and serious as she brought his hand to her heart, laid hers on his, and
repeated the words.

She saw
emotion move over his face. His heart leaped hard against her hand. “You undo
me, Eve.”

He sat up,
dropped his brow against hers. “Thank God for you,” he murmured in a voice gone
raw. “Thank God for you.”

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

She refused to
sleep, so he talked her into sharing a meal in bed. She sat cross-legged on the
sheets, plowing her way through a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

The
combination of sex, food, and a blistering shower had done the job.

“Morano broke
down in interview,” she began.

“I'd put it
that you broke him down,” Roarke corrected. “I watched you.” And had seen the
way she'd stared into the glass. Into herself. “He wouldn't have known how
difficult it was for you.”

“Not so
difficult, because I knew I'd break him. I didn't know you were there.”

“I was part of
the operational team.” He twirled a bit of her pasta onto his fork. “And I
enjoy watching you work.”

“It was a
contest to them, and the women game pieces. All I had to do was box Morano into
a corner, and game over. The way he sees it, it was Dunwood's fault, and he was
just trying to keep up. Bankhead was an accident, Cline didn't die, and
McNamara, well that was, in his view, a kind of self-defense. I looked at him,
and I didn't see anything calculating or particularly vicious. He's just empty,
weak and empty. A kind of -- it sounds hokey -- void of evil.”

“It sounds
accurate. Dunwood's a different kettle, isn't he?”

“And then
some.” She picked up her wineglass, sipped, then leaned over to sample some of
Roarke's linguini with clam sauce. “Mine's better,” she decided, pleased.
“After the session with Renfrew in Whitney's office -- “

“What
session?” *

“Forgot. I
didn't tell you.”

So, between
mouthfuls of spaghetti and the herbed bread he offered, she did. “I can't
believe I practically told Whitney to shut up. He should've slapped me down for
it.”

“He's a smart
man. And a good cop. Renfrew now, he's just the type of cop who made things
relatively easy for me. During a past, and regrettable period of my life,” he
added soberly when she frowned at him. “More ambitious than clever, narrow of
view and focus. Lazy.”

He scooped up
another forkful of her pasta. She was right; hers was better. “And,” he
continued, “he epitomizes my previous view of the species. The view I held of
badges before I got to know one more intimately.”

“His kind
pisses me off, but his captain ... He's solid. He'll deal with it. Anyway.
Anyway.” She let out a long breath. She was stuffed, but still wanted more. “I
took the team, minus our civilian consultant, to his place to bring him in. He
lawyered straight off, and kept his mouth shut. He's not stupid, and he's not
weak. His mistake is believing everyone else is. That's what'll take him
under.”

“No, you're
what will take him under.”

His absolute
confidence in her warmed as much as any words of love. “Really stuck on me,
aren't you?”

“Apparently.
How about letting me have what's left of that meatball?”

She nudged the
plate in his direction. “Dunwood had three lawyers in tow before we finished
booking him. He claims to know nothing about nothing, except he did notice his
good friend and companion Kevin's been acting a bit strange, coming in at odd
hours, dressing up in strange getups to go out.”

“Friendship's
a beautiful thing.”

“You bet. We've
got no DNA on him, and he knows it. He's playing the innocent victim, the
outraged citizen, and letting his reps do all the talking. He didn't even blink
when we brought up the home lab, and the samples we're testing from it. Didn't
even get a shrug out of him when I pointed out we'd found the wig and the suit
worn in the Lutz security disc in his bedroom closet. That his bathroom vanity
contained the brand of face putty and enhancements found on her body and her
sheets. His story is Kevin used them, planted them. Same thing with the Carlo
account,” she added. “The illegals operation. He doesn't know a thing. It
must've been Kevin.”

“Where do you
go from here?”

“Feeney's
doing his e-thing with all the 'links and computers we confiscated from the
townhouse. He'll find something. Dunwood was meeting someone on the night he
killed his grandfather, and my take is she didn't show. We find her, verify the
correspondence and the meeting scheduled that night for the club where he
bought drinks, and we add more layers. The samples from the lab are going to
test out for Whore and Rabbit. His lawyers can try to dance around that
experimenting isn't illegal, and we have to prove use and/or distribution for
sale. But it adds the next tier. We dig until we connect him to the
distribution of those illegals as Carlo, through Charles Monroe's client. Crime
Scene's fluoroscoping the house, and they'll find blood. We've got Morano's
point-by-point confession. We've got plenty for an indictment. When we add up
everything we'll lock in over the next couple days, we'll wrap him up in it.”

More due to a
need to move around than a sense of tidiness, she cleared the plates off the
bed. “I'll sic Mira on him,” she added. “But even she's going to have a tough
time chipping at that shell. In the end, we'll dump all the evidence --
physical, circumstantial, forensic, the psych profiles, the statements -- into
a box and wrap it up for the lawyers. He won't walk away.”

“Will you? Can
you?”

“If you'd
asked me that twenty-four hours ago, I'd have said no. Unless I lied.” She
turned around to face him. “But yeah, after I finish putting the case together,
take a couple more shots at him in Interview, I'll pass it to the PA. And I'll
walk away. There's always another, Roarke, and if I don't walk away, I can't
face the next.”

“I need time
with you, Eve. Alone, away. No ghosts, no obligations, no grief.”

“We're going
to Mexico, right?”

“To start,
anyway. I want two weeks.”

She opened her
mouth, a dozen reasons why she couldn't take that much time ready to trip off
her tongue. And looking at him found the reason, the one that mattered, why she
would. “When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as
you're able. I've dealt with my schedule.”

“Give me a
couple days to tie the ends together. Meanwhile, I've got a direct order from
my commander I have to follow. I'm ordered to use whatever method guarantees me
eight hours' sleep.”

“And have you
chosen your method, darling Eve?”

“Yeah, and
it's foolproof.” She dived onto him.

She had his
robe off and her hands full when the inter-house 'link beeped.

“What the hell
does he want?” she demanded. “Doesn't he know we're busy?”

“Don't forget
your place.” Roarke blocked video, answered. “Summerset, unless the house is on
fire or under massive enemy attack, I don't want to hear from you until
morning.”

“I'm sorry to
disturb you, but the lieutenant's commander is here to see her. Shall I tell
him she's unavailable?”

“No. Shit.”
She was already scrambling up. “I'll be right down.”

“Have
Commander Whitney wait in the main parlor,” Roarke said. “We'll join him in a
moment.”

“This isn't
good, this can't be good.” She yanked open a drawer and grabbed the first items
that came to hand. “Whitney doesn't drop in for drinks and an after-work chat.
Goddamn it.”

Without
bothering with underwear, she pulled on ancient jeans, dragged a faded NYPSD
T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off over her head. Still cursing, she hopped
into her boots.

In the same
amount of time Roarke had managed to dress in pleated black trousers and a
pristine black T-shirt. He slipped into loafers while she caught her breath.

“You know, if
I wasn't in a real hurry, that would make me sick.”

“What would
that be?”

“How you can
put yourself together like some fashion plate in under two minutes,” she
complained and hurried out of the room.

In the main
parlor, amid the gleaming wood and glinting glass, Whitney and Galahad studied
each other with cautious and mutual respect. When Eve strode in, Whitney looked
relieved.

“Lieutenant,
Roarke, I'm sorry to intrude on your evening.”

“It's not a
problem, Commander,” Eve said quickly. “Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to
tell you personally, and face-to-face rather than have you hear it second-hand.
Lucias Dunwood's attorney's asked and received an immediate bond hearing.”

Eve read the
results of it on his face. “They let him out,” she said flatly. “What kind of
judge sets bail for a man charged with multiple first-degrees?”

“A judge who,
as a friend of the Dunwood and McNamara families, should have excused himself
from the hearing. It was argued that there's no physical evidence against
Dunwood.”

“There will be
in a matter of hours,” Eve began.

“And further
argued,” Whitney continued, “that the heaviest weight in the charges stems from
the confession of Kevin Morano, which implicates Dunwood. That Dunwood has no
priors, is a member of a respected family, a man who only last night was
informed of his grandfather's tragic death.”

“Murder,” Eve
snapped out. “One he committed.”

“His mother
attended the hearing. Made a personal plea that bail be granted so that her
only son could assist her in memorializing and burying her father. Bail was set
at five million, paid, and Dunwood was released into his mother's custody.”

“Think.”
Roarke laid a hand on Eve's shoulder before she could speak. “Will he run?”

She drew
herself in, forced herself to see through the rage. “No. It's still a contest.
Just a different game. He intends to win. But he's pissed because I changed the
board on him, so he's likely to do something rash. He's spoiled, and he's
angry. We need to put a flag on the lab work. We need positive identification
of the chemical samples taken from the townhouse.”

“Already
done,” Whitney told her. “I spoke with Dickhead -- Berenski,” he corrected, “on
the way here. You have a positive match for the illegals found in the victims.
Using that evidence and the judge's relationship to the accused, the PA has
filed for immediate revocation of bond.”

“Will he get
it?”

“We'll know
within the hour. Regretfully, I'm going to have to countermand my order for you
to get eight hours' sleep, Lieutenant. Your day isn't finished. Nor is mine,”
he added. “I'll go back to Central and stand by. With any luck, you'll be
picking Dunwood back up tonight. I intend to go with you.”

“With me?
But...” She caught herself in time, swallowed the words back. “Yes, sir.”

“I put my time
in on the streets, Lieutenant. I can assure you, desk jockey or not, I'm not
dead weight.”

“No, sir. No
disrespect intended. With your permission, Commander, I'll tag Feeney, have him
snatch up McNab so they can put in time tonight on the electronics we have in
Evidence.”

“It remains
your case. Plug the holes. I'll contact you as soon as I have word from the
prosecutor.”

“Commander.”
Roarke kept his hand on Eve's shoulder. He could feel her vibrating under it --
revving to act, to do. “Have you had dinner?”

“Not as yet.
I'll catch something at my desk.”

It took two
squeezes of Roarke's hand on her shoulder for Eve to clue in. “Um. Why don't
you have something here, Commander? Save yourself some travel time.”

“I don't want
to put you out.”

“It's no
trouble at all,” Roarke assured him. “I'll keep you company while Eve makes her
calls.” He gestured to the doorway. “Your family's well, I hope.”

Eve took a
deep breath and watched them leave the room. She wasn't sure which was weirder
-- her commander settling down to have dinner in her house or him settling down
to have that meal in the company of a man who'd spent the majority of his life
successfully breaking every law on the books. And some that hadn't even been
written.

“All-around
weird,” she said to Galahad. And leaving the socializing to Roarke, she headed
up to her office to get back to work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Because she
understood his feelings exactly -- and his way with words when riled was even
more inventive than she was -- Eve let Feeney rant, rave, and spew.

And didn't
mention the fact that he'd answered the 'link wearing pajamas with little red
hearts on them and that the music in the background was some bass-voiced singer
crooning about making sweet love to his woman.

It seemed she
wasn't the only one who'd had seduction in the plans for the evening.

“We'll get him
back,” she said when Feeney ran down to sputters. “I'm going to order
surveillance on the mother's place and his townhouse. I don't think he'll
rabbit, but I don't want to risk it. Get me something on those electronics,
Feeney. Find me something to add to the pile.”

“Judge oughta
be stripped down, dragged through the streets, with a big sign that says
BRAIN-DEAD FUCKFACE tied to his dick.”

“Yeah, well,
that's a pleasant and satisfying image, but I'll settle for a quick overturn on
the bail. You'll tag McNab.”

“Probably
bouncing on Peabody,” Feeney barked. “Talk about rabbits.”

Eve decided it
showed great restraint and sterling character for her not to mention the heart
pajamas at such a prime opening. “If he is, I don't want to know about it, but
you can tell Peabody to stand by for data. You pull anything out, she can
follow it through.”

“You don't
want her with you on the take-down?”

“No, I've got
another cop coming along. Whitney.”

“Jack?”
Feeney's drooping face brightened like a boy's. “No shit?”

“No shit. What
do I do with him, Feeney? If we run into anything hinky, am I supposed to give
him orders?”

“You're
primary.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I'll play it by ear. Get me something. Oh,
and Feeney? Love the pjs.”

She broke transmission.
Okay, maybe she didn't have such a sterling character.

She called in,
requested surveillance on the two locations, then got up to pace off the time.

What was
taking the PA so long? She should probably go downstairs. And play hostess. She
was better at it than she'd been a year ago. Not good at it, but better. Still,
she usually did that duty when there were groups, business dinners, or parties
where there were so many people, giving anyone a lot of personal attention
wasn't necessary.

Casual conversation
and small talk were Roarke's strengths not hers. She took the coward's way and
stalled by going back to the bedroom for her weapon harness.

The minute she
strapped it on, she felt more in control.

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

Lucias felt
the same way. In control. The rage, the insult, was a black, bubbling
brew beneath the ice. And if from time to time it burned a hole through, he was
still in control.

He'd known his
mother would whine and beg and weep for him. She was so predictable. Women
were, to his way of thinking. They were, by nature, weak and submissive. They
required direction and a firm hand. His grandfather, then his father, had
always given his mother a firm hand.

He was simply
carrying on the McNamara-Dunwood tradition.

Dunwood men
ran the show. Dunwood men were winners.

Dunwood men
deserved respect, obedience, and unquestioning loyalty. They were not to be
treated like common criminals, to be pushed around, locked in a cage, questioned.

And they were
never, never to be betrayed.

Naturally
they'd let him go. He'd never doubted he'd be released. He'd never go to
prison, never allow himself to be locked away like an animal.

He would, one
way or the other, come out of this the winner.

But that
didn't make up for the humiliation of being dragged behind bars, taken into a
courtroom. Deprived of his rights.

He'd deal with
Eve Dallas. Under it all she was just a woman. God knew women should never be
put in positions of authority or power. That, at least, had been something he
and his late unlamented grandparent had agreed on.

He'd bide his
time with her, plan carefully. Pick his time and place. When he was ready he'd
pay her back for laying hands on him, for spoiling the game. For the public
embarrassment she'd caused him.

A quiet place,
a private interlude. Oh yes, he intended to have a very hot date with
Lieutenant Dallas. This time she'd be the one in restraints. When she was
loaded with Whore, begging for the one thing women truly wanted, he wouldn't
even fuck her.

He'd hurt her.
Oh yes, he'd give her pain -- exquisite pain -- but he'd deny her that final,
glorious release.

She'd die
desperate, just another bitch in heat.

The idea made
him hard, and the hardening only proved he was a man.

But Dallas and
her punishment would wait. There was, he knew, a natural order to things.

And first
there was Kevin.

A lifetime
friendship was no buffer against the sin of disloyalty. Kevin had to pay, and
in paying would essentially ensure Lucias's own vindication.

He'd groomed
himself carefully for this particular task. His hair was a gleaming copper,
worn like a snug helmet over his skull. His complexion milk-white. His name was
Terrance Blackburn, as his identification would verify. And he was Kevin
Morano's attorney of record.

There were
flaws. Lucias could admit there were flaws in the disguise. But the need to
hurry outweighed the need to polish every small detail.

In any case,
he knew people generally saw what they expected to see. He looked a great deal
like Blackburn, would identify himself as such. He wore the sharp, conservative
suit of a successful criminal attorney. Carried the expensive leather
briefcase. Fixed the sober and aloof expression on his face.

He passed
through the levels of security at Central without trouble. When he demanded a
consultation with his client, he elicited annoyance more than interest from the
duty cop.

He submitted
coolly to the cursory pat-down, to having the contents of his briefcase x-rayed
once again. And when he was shown into a consultation room, he sat, folded his
hands, and waited for his client.

Seeing Kevin
escorted in wearing a baggy fluorescent orange jumpsuit, put a nice, chilly
scrim over Lucias's bubble of rage. His friend's face appeared gray and drawn
above the hideous prison clothes. But he looked momentarily hopeful when he
spotted Lucias.

“Mr.
Blackburn, I wasn't expecting you to come back tonight. You said you were
arranging for me to go into Testing tomorrow, to show my emotional and mental
dependence. Is there something new, something better?”

“We'll discuss
it.” When Kevin sat, Lucias waved the guard away with an absent gesture and
opened the briefcase. The door closed with a satisfying snick. “How are you
feeling?”

“Terrible.” He
linked and unlinked his fingers. “I'm in a cell alone. Lieutenant Dallas, she
kept her word on that. But it's dark, and it -- it smells. And there's no
privacy, none at all. I really don't think I can go to prison, Mr. Blackburn.
It just isn't possible. There must be a way to arrange Testing so that it comes
out in my favor. I could spend some time in a private rehabilitation facility,
or -- or accept at-home incarceration. But I can't possibly go to prison.”

“We'll just
have to find a way to avoid that.”

“Really?”
Relieved, Kevin leaned forward. “But before you said ... well, it doesn't
matter. Thank you. Thank you. I feel so much better knowing you'll make some
arrangements.”

“I'll need
more money. To smooth the path.”

“Anything.
Anything you need.” Kevin buried his face in his hands. “I can't stay in this
place. I don't know how I'll make it through even one night.”

“You need to
stay calm. Let me get you some water.” He rose, crossed over to the water
cooler in the corner. And as he filled a cup, added the contents of the vial he
wore on a chain under his shirt.

“Your
confession,” Lucias added as he brought the cup back, “clearly states that
Lucias Dunwood was to blame. It was his game, and one he was winning.”

“I feel
terrible about that. What else could I do? The things Dallas said would happen
to me.” He gulped at the water. “And it's not my fault. Anyone can see it's not
my fault. I'd never have gone so far without Lucias egging me on.”

“He's smarter
than you. Stronger.”

“No. No, he's
not. He's just... Lucias. He's competilive. Inventive. I can't help it if it
came down to him or me. Anyway...” Kevin worked up a weak smile. “I guess, at
this point, I won the game.”

“Do you think
so? You couldn't be more wrong.”

“I don't know
what you ...” His vision swam, went gray at the edges. “I don't feel very
well.”

“You'll pass
out first,” Lucias said softly. “Just slide under. You'll be dead before they
get you to the infirmary. You should've been loyal, Kev.”

“Lucias?”
Panicked, he tried to rise, but his legs buckled. “Help me. Somebody help me.”

“It's much too
late.” Lucias got to his feet, slid the chain from around his neck and looped
it around Kevin's. Tucked it neatly under the jumpsuit.

“You can't
mean to do this.” Kevin gripped Lucias's arm weakly. “Lucias, you can't mean to
kill me.”

“I have killed
you. But painlessly, Kev, for old times' sake. They'll think self-termination
at first. It'll take them a while to figure out your visitor wasn't Blackburn.
And since I'm at home with Mother, it couldn't have been me. One consolation,”
he added as Kevin crumbled to the floor, “you won't go to prison.”

He reached
over, closed the briefcase, brushed at his suit jacket. “Our game's over,” he
mumbled. “I win.” He hit the panic button under the table, then crouched down,
began tapping Kevin's cheeks with his hand.

“He passed
out,” he told the guard. “Went into a rant about not being able to stand the
thought of prison, then collapsed. He needs medical attention.”

And while his
dying friend was being carried to medical, Lucias Dunwood walked briskly out of
Cop Central.

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

Whitney and
Roarke were sharing after-dinner coffee and cigars when Eve walked in. She
actually heard Whitney laugh -- not the low rumbling chuckle she'd occasionally
heard out of him -- but a big, rollicking belly laugh that stopped her in her
tracks.

He was still
grinning from it when she managed to unstick her feet and continue into the
dining room.

“I don't know
how the pair of you stay so fit with the menu to choose from in this place.”

Amusement slid
slyly over Roarke's face as he lifted his cup. “We .. . work out a lot. Isn't
that right, darling?”

“Yeah,
exercise is the key to good health. I'm glad you enjoyed your meal, sir. Feeney's
on the electronics. I've arranged for surveillance on Dunwood's townhouse and
his mother's home. Peabody's standing by to run any new data as it comes in. I
goosed CSU, and they report they found blood on the living room floor and rug
that matches McNamara's type. O Neg. Dunwood's also O Neg, but with some
pressure on the tech on duty at the lab I had him run the full DNA. Early
indications are it's McNamara's, sir. We'll confirm that before morning.”

Whitney puffed
on the cigar, a small luxury his wife denied him. “Do you ever wind down,
Dallas?” At her blank look, he shook his head. “Sit down. Have some coffee.
Everything's being done that can be done. We can't move until the PA reports
in.”

“She won't
argue if it's an order,” Roarke pointed out.

“I hate to, in
her own house. Please.” Whitney pointed to a chair. “Roarke tells me you're off
to Mexico for two weeks. Have you put in for the time?”

“No, sir.”
Restless and reluctant, she sat. “I'll take care of it in the morning.”

“Consider it
taken care of. You're an exceptional cop, Lieutenant. Exceptional cops burn out
faster than mediocre ones. A good marriage helps. I can attest to that.
Children,” he added, then laughed at her expression of sheer horror. “When the
time comes. Friendships. Family. In other words, a life. Outside the job.
Without it, you can forget why you do what you do. Why it matters that every
time you close a case and put one down, there's one less.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think since
I've sat here eating your food, smoking your man's very excellent cigar, you
could call me Jack.”

She thought
about it for about three seconds. “No, sir. I'm sorry. I can't.”

He leaned
back, blew a lazy smoke ring. “Ah well,” he said, and his communicator beeped.

He went from
relaxed to command in a single heartbeat. “Whitney.”

“Bail is
hereby revoked,” the PA announced. “Lucias Dunwood is to be remanded into
custody, all charges holding, immediately. Copies of the revocation order and
new warrant transmitting now.”

Whitney waited
while they spit out of the data slot. “Good work.” He shoved the communicator
away. “Lieutenant. Let's go do the job.”

When Roarke
rose as well, Whitney inclined his head. “The civilian consultant on this case
has requested permission to accompany us, and that request has been granted.”
He handed her the paperwork. “Do you have a problem with that. Lieutenant? As
primary.”

She sucked in
a breath as Roarke gave her an easy smile. “A lot of good it would do me, so
no, sir, I have no problem with it.”

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

Sarah Dunwood
lived in a two-level apartment in a quiet building only blocks from her son.
Security pissed around with the usual “retired for the evening,” “not receiving
visitors,” until Eve drilled through the muck with badge, warrant, and bitter
threats.

“Impressive”
Whitney commented as they stepped on the elevator. “But tell me, is it
technologically possible to rip out a mother board and stuff it up a computer's
ass?”

“I've never
had to follow through, sir. The threat's usually sufficient. Dunwood's likely
to resist,” she continued. “He won't like being thwarted this way, and his
instinct will be to attack before his control snaps back.” She hesitated.
“Commander, I'd like to arm the consultant. For his own protection.”

“That's your
call, Lieutenant.”

Nodding, she
bent down, released her clutch piece from its ankle grip. “It's on low stun,
and it stays there. It doesn't come into your hand, it is not deployed unless
you're in immediate physical jeopardy. Clear?”

“Crystal,
Lieutenant.” Roarke slid the weapon into his pocket as they stepped out on the
Dun woods' floor.

“I'm at
point,” she continued. “We do this fast. Go in, locate, and restrain. I want
you to clear any and all civilians out of the area.”

She buzzed,
and the instant the door opened, pushed inside. “Police. Bail for Lucias
Dunwood has been revoked. He's ordered to turn himself over to my authority
immediately.”

“You can't
come in this way! Miss Sarah! Miss Sarah!”

Roarke drew
the shrieking maid aside, clearing Eve's path. “You'll want to sit down now,
before you get hurt.”

Scanning
entries and exits, Eve strode into the living area. Her fingers twitched toward
her weapon, then away again as a woman came rushing down the stairs.

“What is it?
What's the matter? Who are you?”

She was a
small, rail-thin woman with a gleam of curly red hair, disordered now, and a
mildly pretty face spoiled by bruising under her left eye and along the soft
curve of her jaw.

“Mrs.
Dunwood?”

“Yes, I'm Mrs.
Dunwood. You're the police. You're the woman who arrested my son.”

“I'm
Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” She offered her badge, but her eyes tracked for any
movement and her ears were pricked for any sound. “Lucias Dunwood's bail has
been revoked. I'm here to take him into custody.”

“You can't. I
paid. The judge -- “

“I have the
revocation order and the warrant. Mrs. Dunwood, is your son upstairs?”

“He's not
here. You can't have him.”

“Did he do
that to your face?” „

There was
terror now in the pitch of her voice. “I fell. Why won't you leave him alone?”
She began to cry. “He's just a boy.”

“That boy
killed your father.”

“That's not
true. That can't be true.” She covered her face with her hands and broke into
wild sobs.

“Commander?”

“Go. Mrs.
Dunwood, you need to sit down.”

Leaving the
men to deal with the hysteria, Eve laid her hand on her weapon and started her
search. She went upstairs first, trusting Lucias could be dealt with if he made
any move on the lower level. She swept each room, entered, searched. When she
came to a locked door, she drew out her master, bypassed the locks.

He'd kept a
room here, she noted as she stepped inside. A pampered, indulged boy's room
full of high-class toys. The entertainment unit spread over an entire wall --
video, audio, screen, game components. The data and communication center took
up most of an L-shaped counter. Shelves were stocked tight with discs, books,
mementos.

There was a
mini-lab, fully equipped, set up in the adjoining room.

In both areas,
the drapes were drawn tight over the windows, the doors locked to the outside
hallways. It was a little world of secrets, she thought.

She searched
the closets first, found more wigs stored in clear boxes along with what she
assumed he considered his secondary wardrobe.

In the bath
she found traces of face putty and face base on the counter.

No, he wasn't
here, she thought. And he hadn't walked out as himself.

Holstering her
weapon, she walked back to the data center.

“Computer,
display last opened file, image or data.”

Cannot
comply without password ...

“We'll see
about that.” She hurried out, went to the top of the stairs. “Roarke, I need
you a minute.”

She walked
back through the bedroom into the lab and helped herself to a can of Seal-It.

“The maid
claims Dunwood and his mother had a shouting match,” Roarke told her as he came
in. “Or rather, Dunwood did the shouting. She heard his mother crying, heard
the sound of blows. That's when she ran out of the kitchen area. She heard him
slam out, and found Mrs. Dunwood on the floor. Apparently, it's not the first
time he's used his fists on her. Like his grandfather and father before him.
The father's in Seattle on business. He doesn't spend much time here.”

“Big, happy
family. I want whatever you can get me out of this, last work first. It's
passcoded. If you have to touch anything, use this.”

She tossed him
the sealant. “I'll be back in a minute.”

She left him
to it, went downstairs. “He's not on the premises,” she told the commander.
“Mrs. Dunwood, where did Lucias go?”

“For a walk.
He just went out for a walk. His mind's troubled.”

I'll say, Eve thought, but crouched down. “Mrs. Dunwood, you're
not helping him. You're not helping yourself. The longer it takes to find him,
the harder it's going to go on him. Tell me where he is.”

“I don't know.
He was upset and angry.”

“How was he dressed
when he left?”

“I don't know
what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.
He disguised himself again. And you knew when you saw him that way, you knew in
some part of yourself that he'd done everything he's been accused of.”

“I don't. I
don't believe it.”

Eve turned
away when her communicator signaled. She strode out of earshot, listened. Then
she gave the order for an APB.

“Kevin
Morano's dead.” She said it flatly, watched shock and horror pale Mrs.
Dunwood's face.

“Kevin? No.
No.”

“He was
poisoned. He had a visitor this evening in a consultation room. You know what
that visitor looked like, don't you, Mrs. Dunwood? Your son went to visit his
friend, and he killed him. Then he walked away.”

“How the hell
did he get through security?” Whitney demanded to know.

“By looking
like this.” Roarke came back in, held out a hard copy of an image. “This data
was the last work on his computer.”

“Blackburn,”
Eve said, without looking at the printout. “Morano's attorney of record. They'd
have passed him through with minimal checks. He's a well-known criminal
attorney.”

“There's
something else.” Roarke offered her another printout. “The rules of the game.”

SEDUCE AND
CONQUER, Eve read, a contest of
romantic and sexual exploits between Lucias Dunwood and Kevin Morano.

And scanned the
rest.

It was all
there, meticulously organized and detailed. The setup, the rules, the payoff
system, the goals.

Disgust
tightened her belly as she whirled back. “Look at this,” she ordered Sarah
Dunwood. “Read this. This is what he's done. This is what he is.” She pushed
the sheet under Mrs. Dunwood's face.

“Do you want
to leave me with nothing?” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared at Eve
rather than the printout. “I carried him in my body. After months of tests and
treatments, of grief and hope, I made him inside me. Will you leave me with
nothing?”

“I'm not the
one leaving you with nothing, Mrs. Dunwood. He's taken care of that himself.”
She turned away again, and ordered two uniforms up to the apartment.

“He needs a
place to remove the disguise,” she said as they left the apartment. “He'll come
back here eventually, but he doesn't have all his things here. He'll want more
of his toys. Clothes.”

She tried to
put herself in his head. “Gotta ditch the disguise first. He'll know we'll come
around to him with Morano's death. He can't afford to leave any trace of that
around. But he thinks we're slow and stupid. He's so much smarter. He'll hurry,
but he won't rush. He'll go home, take off the face and hair. Clean up. Spend
some time gloating, packing some things up, destroying anything he thinks might
be incriminating.”

“You put men
on the house,” Whitney reminded her. “They'll spot him.”

“Maybe, maybe
not. Because he'll expect them to be there. Will you drive, sir?” she asked as
they stepped outside. “I need the civilian to draw me a picture.”

He drove fast,
and without sirens. Whitney's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing when at
Eve's request Roarke quickly called up blueprints of the townhouse on his PPC.

“You got
holo-features on there?”

“Naturally.
Display data holographically.” The image spilled out into Eve's lap.

She studied
it. And planned. “We'll move the surveillance team to the rear. One man in, one
man out. Additional men entering here, and here. We go in the front. Roarke,
you'll go left, and up the stairs. The commander right to sweep the main level.
I'll take the steps down. He's got full security, with video, so if he's paying
attention, and he pays attention, he'll know we're coming. Watch each other's
backs because at the core, he's a coward.”

While she
committed the holo to memory, she called for additional backup.

When they
pulled up behind the surveillance vehicle, she hopped out, demanded status. She
detailed the situation, gave her orders quickly.

“Seal hasn't
been breached,” Whitney commented as they approached the front.

“He wouldn't
use the main door. There are three other entrances, twelve first-story
windows.” She detoured at a jog to the side of the house farthest away from the
surveillance. “Broken glass,” she reported. “He's in there.”

Both she and
Whitney pulled out masters. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“No. Forgot
myself. Go.” He replaced the master with his weapon.

She uncoded
the seal. “On three.”

“She likes to
go in low,” Roarke told Whitney, and on Eve's count went in the door with her,
high.

They speared
off, three arrows. Eve called out the required warning as she took the stairs
to the lower level with her back to the wall.

The droid met
her at the bottom.

“I am
programmed to deflect, restrain, or impede any and all unauthorized intruders
on these premises. If you attempt to come any farther, I will be forced to
cause you physical harm.”

“Back off.
We're the police, fully authorized and warranted to enter these premises and
remand Lucias Dunwood into custody.”

“I am
programmed to deflect, restrain, or impede,” he began, moving toward her.

“Fuck this,”
she muttered, and blasted him.

While he
sparked and shuddered, she kicked him aside. “Lights on,” she ordered, and
didn't bother to swear when her order was ignored. She moved in the dark,
leading with her weapon each time she approached a doorway.

At the soft
sound of footsteps behind her, she whirled, finger twitching. “Goddamn it,
Roarke.”

“You have two
men covering the first level. Additional backup on the way. This'll go faster
with two of us down here. And,” he continued, moving up to guard her back,
“down here is where he is.”

Her instincts
told her the same. Which was why she'd taken the area personally.

“Lab's going
to be straight back,” she said quietly, though she'd already picked up the
security cameras tucked into the corners of the ceiling. “He's boxed in, but
he's ready for us.”

The door was
locked.

“I'm going to
bypass,” she whispered in Roarke's ear. “He'll expect us to rush. That's what
he's ready for. Don't go through the door until I give the signal.”

She slipped
the locks, kicked the door, then spun away.

The move saved
her. Something crashed in the dark near the toes of her boots. She saw the
smoke, heard the hiss, and was forced to sidestep before the acid eating into
the floor hit leather.

There was a
flash from inside. She felt a bright, shocking pain in her left shoulder.
“Shit!”

“You're hit.”
Roarke dived across the open doorway, blocked her body with his as another
series of blasts shot through like lightning bolts.

“Just glanced
me.” Her arm was numb now, shoulder to fingertip. “Get my communicator out of
my pocket. My left hand's dead.”

He pulled it
out. “Lowest level, east end,” he said into it. “Dunwood's armed. The
lieutenant's been hit.”

“Minimal
damage,” she snapped, irritated. “I'm not down. Repeat, I am not down. Security
panel's over there.” She jerked her head. “Bypass the damn voice command and
get the lights on. Dunwood!” she shouted, duck-walking to the doorway with her
left arm hanging useless and her weapon in her right hand. “It's over. The
house is surrounded. You've got nowhere to go. Throw out your weapon, and come
out with your hands up.”

“It's not over
until I say it's over! I'm not finished.” He fired again. “Do you think
I'm losing to a woman!”

The lights
went on, and gave her a good look at the blackened hole in the floor only
inches from her feet. “Seduce and conquer. We accessed your game, Lucias. Not
too smart of you to write it all down so nice and tidy for us. We know you did
Kevin. That was slick, but you don't know as much about law as you do about
chemistry. His confession stands. And you were stupid enough to leave traces of
putty and base in your bathroom. Really losing points fast.”

Glass crashed
inside the room, and his voice raged as temper lashed out. “It's my game, you
bitch. My rules.”

She held up
her gun hand, signaling the men back as she heard them rushing down the stairs.

“New game, new
rules, and you'll never beat me, Lucias. I'm better than you are. Throw out the
weapon and come out or I'm going to hurt you.”

“You won't
win.” He was weeping now, a spoiled boy choked by a tantrum. “Nobody beats me.
I'm undefeated. I'm a Dunwood.”

“Cover me.”
She drew in a breath, tucked and rolled into the room. The stunner blasts
jolted over her head, shot along the floor by her hip as she dived for cover.

“Not smart,
Lucias.” She pressed her back into a wide cupboard. “Nope, not so smart. You
keep missing. Aiming wild. You buy that off the street? Did they tell you it
was fully charged? They lie. I bet if you check the discharge rate, you're more
than half out already. I've got a full load. And I don't miss. I won the game.
And my prize is locking you into a cage for the rest of your life. A woman's
going to lock you away, Lucias.”

She angled
herself, signaled to Roarke to lay down fire to her right. On the blast, she
leaped up. She swore, fired a stun shot. But was already too late.

The vial he
held slid out of his hand as he shuddered and collapsed.

“Call for
MTs,” she shouted, and leaped over the broken glass. She kicked his weapon
away, crouched. “What did you take?”

“What I gave
Kevin.” He smiled, coldly. “Double the dose for speed. No woman's locking me
away. I end the game my way, so I win. I always win. You lose, bitch.”

She watched
him die, and felt nothing. “No. Everybody wins.”

EPILOGUE

She stood
outside, breathing in the night air, cradling her now tingling left arm in the
palm of her right hand.

Sarah Dunwood
would be burying both her father and her son. Daughter and mother, trapped in
loves and loyalties that made no sense.

Maybe they
weren't meant to.

“Do you want
medical attention, Lieutenant?”

She glanced
over at Whitney. “No, sir.” Flexed her fingers. “It's coming back.”

“You played
him as well as anyone could.” Together, they watched the black bag that held
Lucias Dunwood, twenty-two, boy genius, beloved son and predator, being carried
out of the house. “You couldn't guess he'd self-terminate rather than surrender
to you.”

But she had,
Eve thought. A part of her had known exactly what she was doing -- and had done
it, had goaded him to it, with cold calculation.

Had they
carried her father out of that freezing, filthy room in a black bag?

Then she
closed her eyes because she was a cop -- and the badge stood for ...
Everything. “I knew it was a risk, Commander. I pushed his buttons fully aware
there was a probability he'd take himself out rather than lose when we had him
cornered. I could have ordered the room rushed. Potentially he'd be on his way
to lockup instead of the morgue.”

“He was armed,
dangerous, and had already fired on you with a black market weapon set on full.
Men might have been lost, certainly injured, who are going home to their
families tonight. You played him as well as anyone could,” he repeated. “File
your report, then go get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir.
Thank you.”

Rolling her
awakening shoulder, she crossed the street to where Roarke waited. “I have to
go in, write and file my report.”

“How's your
arm?”

“It feels like
there are about six million hot needles sticking in it.” She wiggled her
fingers again. “Should be back to normal in a couple hours, which is about what
it'll take to do the paperwork.”

Because he
knew her, and what she was thinking he said, “The world's better off with him
out of it, Eve.”

“Maybe, but
that wasn't my decision to make.”

“You didn't
make it. He did. He had only to give up. You'd have taken him in, turned him
into the system, and been satisfied.”

“Yeah.”
Because it was true, she settled again. “I'm sending a police counselor to his
mother. She doesn't need to hear about this from me, and she'll need someone
who has the right words.”

“Later, when
her grief's not so raw, we might send someone from the abuse shelter to talk to
her.” He took her good hand in his. “Walk away, Eve.”

She nodded.
“Let's go tonight,” she said as they walked to the car.

“Go?”

“Yeah, to
Mexico. As soon as I've closed this, let's just head out, take one of those snappy
transpos of yours and get the hell out of town.”

He kissed her
fingers before opening the door for her. “I'll make the arrangements.”

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Eve Dallas 13 Seduction In Death v1.1

Title:

Seduction In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective