J.D. Robb - Midnight In Death v1.1 (Part of "Silent Night Anthology"
Midnight 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.]

MIDNIGHT IN DEATH

J. D. Robb

Copyright (c) 1998

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

[Blurb]

A Christmas to
Remember...

The strong,
dreamy scent of pine made Eve shake her head. Roarke had gone wild for
tradition on this, their first Christmas together. Who knew what he had paid
for the live trees he'd placed throughout the house. And this one, the one that
stood by the window in their bedroom, he'd insisted they decorate together...

“Tree lights
on,” she ordered, and smiled a little as she watched them blink and flash.

She was
sitting on the arm of the sofa taking off her boots when Roarke came in... She
angled her head and studied him as he stood just inside the doorway. She let
her second boot drop and stood up slowly. “Come here.”

Recognizing
the glint in her eyes, he felt the light tingle of lust begin to move through
his blood. “There?”

“You heard me,
slick.”

Keeping his
eyes on hers, he walked across the room. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

Traditions,
Eve thought, had to start somewhere...

-- from
“Midnight in Death”

“Midnight in
Death” by J. D. Robb copyright (c) 1998 by Nora Roberts.

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

CHAPTER ONE

Murder
respects no traditions. It ignores sentiment. It takes no holidays.

Because murder
was her business, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood in the predawn freeze of
Christmas morning coating the deerskin gloves her husband had given her only
hours before with Seal-It.

The call had
come in less than an hour before and less than six hours since she'd closed a
case that had left her shaky and exhausted. Her first Christmas with Roarke
wasn't getting off to a rousing start.

Then again, it
had taken a much nastier turn for Judge Harold Wainger.

His body had
been dumped dead center in the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. Face up, so his
glazed eyes could stare at the huge celebrational tree that was New York's
symbol of goodwill toward men.

His body was
naked and already a deep shade of blue. The thick mane of silver hair that had
been his trademark had been roughly chopped off. And though his face was
severely battered, she had no trouble recognizing him.

She'd sat in
his courtroom dozens of times in her ten years on the force. He had been, she
thought, a solid and steady man, with as much understanding of the slippery
channels of the law as respect for the heart of it.

She crouched
down to get a closer look at the words that had been burned deeply into his
chest.

JUDGE NOT,
LEST YOU BE JUDGED

She hoped the
burns had been inflicted postmortem, but she doubted it.

He had been
mercilessly beaten, the fingers of both hands broken. Deep wounds around his
wrists and ankles indicated that he'd been bound. But it hadn't been the
beating or the burns that killed him.

The rope used
to hang him was still around his neck, digging deep into flesh. Even that
wouldn't have been quick, she decided. It didn't appear that his neck had been
broken, and the burst vessels in his eyes and face signaled slow strangulation.

“He wanted you
alive as long as possible,” she murmured. “He wanted you to feel it all.”

Kneeling now,
she studied the handwritten note that was flapping gaily in the wind. It had
been fixed over the judge's groin like an obscene loincloth. The list of names
had been printed in careful square block letters.

JUDGE
HAROLD WAINGER

PROSECUTING ATTORNEY STEPHANIE RING

PUBLIC DEFENDER CARL NEISSAN

JUSTINE POLINSKY

DOCTOR CHARLOTTE MIRA

LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS

“Saving me for
last, Dave?”

She recognized
the style: gleeful infliction of pain followed by a slow, torturous death.
David Palmer enjoyed his work. His experiments, as he'd called them when Eve
had finally hunted him down three years before.

By the time
she'd gotten him into a cage, he had eight victims to his credit, and with them
an extensive file of discs recording his work. Since then he'd been serving the
eight life-term sentences that Wainger had given him in a maximum-security ward
for mental defectives.

“But you got
out, didn't you, Dave? This is your handiwork. The torture, the humiliations,
the burns. Public dumping spot for the body. No copycat here. Bag him,” she
ordered and got wearily to her feet.

It didn't look
as though the last days of December 2058 were going to be much of a party.

The minute she
was back in her vehicle, Eve ordered the heat on full blast. She stripped off
her gloves and rubbed her hands over her face. She would have to go in and file
her report, but the first order of business couldn't wait for her to drive to
her home office. Damn if she was going to spend Christmas Day at Cop Central.

She used the
in-dash 'link to contact Dispatch and arrange to have each name on the list
notified of possible jeopardy. Christmas or not, she was ordering uniformed
guards on each one.

As she drove,
she engaged her computer. “Computer, status on David Palmer, mental-defective
inmate on Rexal penal facility.”

Working....
David Palmer, sentenced to eight consecutive life terms in off-planet facility
Rexal reported escaped during transport to prison infirmary, December nineteen.
Man-hunt ongoing.

“I guess Dave
decided to come home for the holidays.” She glanced up, scowling, as a blimp
cruised over, blasting Christmas tunes as dawn broke over the city. Screw the
herald angels, she thought, and called her commander.

“Sir,” she
said when Whitney's face filled her screen. “I'm sorry to disturb your
Christmas.”

“I've already
been notified about Judge Wainger. He was a good man.”

“Yes, sir, he
was.” She noted that Whitney was wearing a robe -- a thick, rich burgundy that
she imagined had been a gift from his wife. Roarke was always giving her fancy
presents. She wondered if Whitney was as baffled by them as she usually was.
“His body's being transferred to the morgue. I have the evidence sealed and am
en route to my home office now.”

“I would have
preferred another primary on this, Lieutenant.” He saw her tired eyes flash,
the golden brown darkening. Still, her face, with its sharp angles, the firm
chin with its shallow dent, the full, unsmiling mouth, stayed cool and
controlled.

“Do you intend
to remove me from the case?”

“You've just
come off a difficult and demanding investigation. Your aide was attacked.”

“I'm not
calling Peabody in,” Eve said quickly. “She's had enough.”

“And you
haven't?”

She opened her
mouth, closed it again. Tricky ground, she acknowledged. “Commander, my name's
on the list.”

“Exactly. One
more reason for you to take a pass here.”

Part of her
wanted to -- the part that wanted, badly, to put it all aside for the day, to
go home and have the kind of normal Christmas she'd never experienced. But she
thought of Wainger, stripped of all life and all dignity.

“I tracked
David Palmer, and I broke him. He was my collar, and no one knows the inside of
his mind the way I do.”

“Palmer?”
Whitney's wide brow furrowed. “Palmer's in prison.”

“Not anymore.
He escaped on the nineteenth. And he's back, Commander. You could say I
recognized his signature. The names on the list,” she continued, pressing her
point. “They're all connected to him. Wainger was the judge during his trial.
Stephanie Ring was APA. Cicely Towers prosecuted the case, but she's dead. Ring
assisted. Carl Neissan was his court-appointed attorney when Palmer refused to
hire his own counsel, Justine Polinksy served as jury foreman. Dr. Mira tested
him and testified against him at trial. I brought him in.”

“The names on
the list need to be notified.”

“Already done,
sir, and bodyguards assigned. I can pull the data from the files into my home
unit to refresh my memory, but it's fairly fresh as it is. You don't forget
someone like David Palmer. Another primary will have to start at the beginning,
taking time that we don't have. I know this man, how he works, how he thinks.
What he wants.”

“What he
wants, Lieutenant?”

“What he always
wanted. Acknowledgment for his genius.”

“It's your
case, Dallas,” Whitney said after a long silence. “Close it.”

“Yes, sir.”

She broke
transmission as she drove through the gates of the staggering estate that
Roarke had made his home.

Ice from the
previous night's storm glinted like silver silk on naked branches. Ornamental
shrubs and evergreens glistened with it. Beyond them, the house rose and
spread, an elegant fortress, a testament to an earlier century with its
beautiful stone, its acres of glass.

In the gloomy
half-light of morning, gorgeously decorated trees shimmered in several windows.
Roarke, she thought with a little smile, had gotten heavily into the Christmas
spirit.

Neither of
them had had much in the way of pretty holiday trees with gaily wrapped gifts
stacked under them in their lives. Their childhoods had been miseries, and they
had compensated for it in different ways. His had been to acquire, to become
one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. By whatever means
available. Hers had been to take control, to become part of the system that had
failed her when she was a child.

Hers was law.
His was -- or had been -- circumventing law.

Now, not quite
a year since another murder had put them on the same ground, they were a unit.
She wondered if she would ever understand how they'd managed it.

She left her
car out front, walked up the steps and through the door into the kind of wealth
that fantasies were made of. Old polished wood, sparkling crystal, ancient rugs
lovingly preserved, art that museums would have wept for.

She shrugged
off her jacket, started to toss it over the newel post. Then, gritting her
teeth, she backtracked and hung it up. She and Summerset, Roarke's
aide-de-camp, had declared a tacit truce in their sniping war. There would be
no potshots on Christmas, she decided.

She could
stand it if he could.

Only
marginally pleased that he didn't slither into the foyer and hiss at her as he
normally did, Eve headed into the main parlor.

Roarke was
there, sitting by the fire, reading the first-edition copy of Yeats that she'd
given him. It had been the only gift she'd been able to come up with for the
man who not only had everything but owned most of the plants where it was
manufactured.

He glanced up,
smiled at her. Her stomach fluttered, as it so often did. Just a look, just a
smile, and her system went jittery. He looked so... perfect, she thought. He
was dressed casually for the day, in black, his long, lean body relaxing in a
chair probably made two hundred years before.

He had the
face of a god with slightly wicked intentions, eyes of blazing Irish blue and a
mouth created to destroy a woman's control. Power sat attractively on him, as
sleek and sexy, Eve thought, as the rich fall of black hair that skimmed nearly
to his shoulders.

He closed the
book, set it aside, then held out a hand to her.

“I'm sorry I
had to leave.” She crossed to him, linked her fingers with his. “I'm sorrier
that I'm going to have to go up and work, at least for a few hours.”

“Got a minute
first?”

“Yeah, maybe.
Just.” And she let him pull her down into his lap. Let herself close her eyes
and simply wallow there, in the scent and the feel of him. “Not exactly the
kind of day you'd planned.”

“That's what I
get for marrying a cop.” Ireland sang quietly in his voice, the lilt of a sexy
poet. “For loving one,” he added, and tipped her face up to kiss her.

“It's a pretty
lousy deal right now.”

“Not from
where I'm sitting.” He combed his fingers through her short brown hair. “You're
what I want, Eve, the woman who leaves her home to stand over the dead. And the
one who knew what a copy of Yeats would mean to me.”

“I'm better
with the dead than with buying presents. Otherwise I'd have come up with more
than one.”

She looked
over at the small mountain of gifts under the tree -- gifts it had taken her
more than an hour to open. And her wince made him laugh.

“You know, one
of the greatest rewards in giving you presents, Lieutenant, is the baffled
embarrassment they cause you.”

“I hope you
got it out of your system for a while.”

“Mmm,” was his
only response. She wasn't used to gifts, he thought, hadn't been given anything
as a child but pain. “Have you decided what to do with the last one?”

The final box
he'd given her had been empty, and he'd enjoyed seeing her frown in puzzlement.
Just as he'd enjoyed seeing her grin at him when he told her it was a day. A
day she could fill with whatever she liked. He would take her wherever she
wanted to go, and they would do whatever she wanted to do. Off-planet or on. In
reality or through the holo-room.

Any time, any
place, any world was hers for the asking.

“No, I haven't
had much time to think it through. It's a pretty great gift. I don't want to
screw it up.”

She let
herself relax against him another moment with the fire crackling, the tree
shimmering, then she pulled back. “I've got to get started. There's a lot of
drone work on this one, and I don't want to tag Peabody today.”

“Why don't I
give you a hand?” He smiled again at the automatic refusal he read in her eyes.
“Step into Peabody's sturdy shoes for the day.”

“This one's
not connected to you in any way. I want to keep it that way.”

“All the
better.” He nudged her up, got to his feet. “I can help you do the runs or
whatever, and that way you won't have to spend your entire Christmas chained to
your desk.”

She started to
refuse again, then reconsidered. Most of the data she wanted were public domain
in any case. And what wasn't was nothing she wouldn't have shared with him if
she'd been thinking it through aloud.

Besides, he
was good.

“Okay,
consider yourself a drone. But when Peabody's got her balance, you're out.”

“Darling.” He
took her hand, kissed it, watched her scowl. “Since you ask so sweetly.”

“And no sloppy
stuff,” she put in. “I'm on duty.”

CHAPTER TWO

The huge cat,
Galahad, was draped over the back of Eve's sleep chair like a drunk over a bar
at last call. Since he'd spent several hours the night before attacking boxes,
fighting with ribbon, and murdering discarded wrapping paper, she left him
where he was so he could sleep it off.

Eve set down
her bag and went directly to the AutoChef for coffee. “The guy we're after is
David Palmer.”

“You've
already identified the killer.”

“Oh, yeah, I
know who I'm after. Me and Dave, we're old pals.”

Roarke took
the mug she brought him, watched her through the steam. “The name's vaguely
familiar to me.”

“You'd have
heard it. It was all over the media three, three and a half years ago. I need
all my case files on that investigation, all data on the trial. You can start
by -- “ She broke off when he laid a hand on her arm.

“David Palmer
-- serial killer. Torture murders.” It was playing back for him, in bits and
pieces. “Fairly young. What -- mid-twenties?”

“Twenty-two at
time of arrest. A real prodigy, our Dave. He considers himself a scientist, a
visionary. His mission is to explore and record the human mind's tolerance to
extreme duress -- pain, fear, starvation, dehydration, sensory deprivation. He
could talk a good game, too.” She sipped her coffee. “He'd sit there in
interview, his pretty face all lit with enthusiasm, and explain that once we
knew the mind's breaking point, we'd be able to enhance it, to strengthen it.
He figured since I was a cop, I'd be particularly interested in his work. Cops
are under a great deal of stress, often finding ourselves in life-and-death
situations where the mind is easily distracted by fear or outside stimuli. The
results of his work could be applied to members of the police and security
forces, the military, even in business situations.”

“I didn't
realize he was yours.”

“Yeah, he was
mine.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was a little more low profile in those
days.”

He might have
smiled at that, knowing it was partially her connection to him that had changed
that status. But he remembered too much of the Palmer case to find the humor.
“I was under the impression that he was safely locked away.”

“Not safely
enough. He slipped out. The victim this morning was dumped in a public area --
another of Dave's trademarks. He likes us to know he's hard at work. The
autopsy will have to verify, but the victim was tortured pre-mortem. I'd guess
Dave found himself a new hole to work in and had the judge there at least a day
before killing him. Death by strangulation occurred on or around midnight.
Merry Christmas, Judge Wainger,” she murmured.

“And that
would be the judge who tried his case.”

“Yeah.”
Absently, she put her mug down, reached into her bag for a copy of the sealed
note she'd already sent to the lab. “He left a calling card -- another
signature. All these names are connected to his case and his sentencing. Part
of his work this time around would be, at my guess, letting his intended
victims stew about what he has in store for them. They're being contacted and
protected. He'll have a tough time getting to any of them.”

“And you?”
Roarke spoke with studied calm after a glance at the list, and his wife's name.
“Where's your protection?”

“I'm a cop.
I'm the one who does the protecting.”

“He'll want
you most, Eve.”

She turned. However
controlled his voice was, she heard the anger under it. “Maybe, but not as much
as I want him.”

“You stopped
him,” Roarke continued. “Whatever was done after -- the tests, the trial, the
sentence -- was all a result of your work. You'll matter most.”

“Let's leave
those conclusions to the profiler.” Though she agreed with them. “I'm going to
contact Mira as soon as I look through the case files again. You can access
those for me while I start my prelim report. I'll give you the codes for my
office unit and the Palmer files.”

Now he lifted
a brow, smiled smugly. “Please. I can't work if you insult me.”

“Sorry.” She
picked up her coffee again. “I don't know why I pretend you need codes to
access any damn thing.”

“Neither do
I.”

He sat down to
retrieve the data she wanted, moving smoothly through the task. It was
pitifully simple for him, and his mind was left free to consider. To decide.

She'd said he
wasn't connected to this, and that she expected him to back away when Peabody
was on duty again. But she was wrong. Her name on the list meant he was more
involved than he'd ever been before. And no power on earth, not even that of
the woman he loved, would cause him to back away.

Close by, Eve
worked on the auxiliary unit, recording the stark facts into the report. She
wanted the autopsy results, the crime scene team and sweeper data. But she had
little hope that she would get anything from the spotty holiday staff before
the end of the next day.

Struggling not
to let her irritation with Christmas resurface, she answered her beeping 'link.
“Dallas.”

“Lieutenant,
Officer Miller here.”

“What is it,
Miller?”

“Sir, my
partner and I were assigned to contact and guard APA Ring. We arrived at her
residence shortly after seven-thirty. There was no response to our knock.”

“This is a
priority situation, Miller. You're authorized to enter the premises.”

“Yes, sir.
Understood. We did so. The subject is not in residence. My partner questioned
the across-the-hall neighbor. The subject left early yesterday morning to spend
the holiday with her family in Philadelphia. Lieutenant, she never arrived. Her
father reported her missing this morning.”

Eve's stomach
tightened. Too late, she thought. Already too late. “What was her method of
transpo, Miller?”

“She had her
own car. We're en route to the garage where she stored it.”

“Keep me
posted, Miller.” Eve broke transmission, looked over, and met Roarke's eyes.
“He's got her. I'd like to think she ran into some road hazard or hired a
licensed companion for a quick holiday fling before heading on to her family,
but he's got her. I need the 'link codes for the other names on the list.”

“You'll have
them. One minute.”

She didn't
need the code for one of the names. With her heart beating painfully, she put
the call through to Mira's home. A small boy answered with a grin and a giggle.
“Merry Christmas! This is Grandmom's house.”

For a moment
Eve just blinked, wondering how she'd gotten the wrong code. Then she heard the
familiar soft voice in the background, saw Mira come on screen with a smile on
her face and strain in her eyes.

“Eve. Good
morning. Would you hold for a moment, please? I'd like to take this upstairs.
No, sweetie,” she said to the boy who tugged on her sleeve. “Run play with your
new toys. I'll be back. Just a moment, Eve.”

The screen
went to a calm, cool blue, and Eve exhaled gratefully. Relief at finding Mira
home, alive, well, safe -- and the oddity of thinking of the composed
psychiatrist as Grandmom played through her mind.

“I'm sorry.”
Mira came back on. “I didn't want to take this downstairs with my family.”

“No problem.
Are the uniforms there?”

“Yes.” In a
rare show of nerves, Mira pushed a hand through her sable-toned hair.
“Miserable duty for them, sitting out in a car on Christmas. I haven't figured
out how to have them inside and keep my family from knowing. My children are
here, Eve, my grandchildren. I need to know if you believe there's any chance
they're in danger.”

“No.” She said
it quick and firm. “That's not his style. Dr. Mira, you're not to leave the
house without your guards. You're to go nowhere, not the office, not the corner
deli, without both of them. Tomorrow you'll be fitted for a tracer bracelet.”

“I'll take all
the precautions, Eve.”

“Good, because
one of those precautions is to cancel all patient appointments until Palmer is
in custody.”

“That's
ridiculous.”

“You're to be
alone with no one, at any time. So unless your patients agree to let you walk
around in their heads while a couple of cops are looking on, you're taking a
vacation.”

Mira eyed Eve
steadily. “And are you about to take a vacation?”

“I'm about to
do my job. Part of that job is you. Stephanie Ring is missing.” She waited, one
beat only, for the implication to register. “Do what you're told, Dr. Mira, or
you'll be in protective custody within the hour. I'll need a consult tomorrow,
nine o'clock. I'll come to you.”

She broke
transmission, turned to get the 'link codes from Roarke, and found him watching
her steadily. “What?”

“She means a
great deal to you. If she meant less, you'd have handled that with more
finesse.”

“I don't have
much finesse at the best of times. Let's have the codes.” When he hesitated,
she sighed and replied, “Okay, okay, fine. She means a lot, and I'll be damned
if he'll get within a mile of her. Now give me the goddamn codes.”

“Already
transferred to your unit, Lieutenant. Logged in, on memory. You've only to
state the name of the party for transmission.”

“Show-off.”
She muttered it, knowing it would make him grin, and turned back to contact the
rest of the names on Palmer's list.

When she was
satisfied that the other targets were where they were supposed to be, and under
guard, Eve turned to the case files Roarke had accessed.

She spent an
hour going over data and reports, another reviewing her interview discs with
Palmer.

Okay, Dave,
tell me about Michelle Hammel. What made her special?

David Palmer, a
well-built man of twenty-two with the golden good looks of the wealthy New
England family he'd sprung from, smiled and leaned forward earnestly. His clear
blue eyes were bright with enthusiasm. His caramel-cream complexion glowed with
health and vitality.

Somebody's
finally listening, Eve remembered thinking as she saw herself as she'd been
three years before. He's finally got the chance to share his genius.

Her hair was
badly cut -- she'd still been hacking at it herself in those days. The boots
crossed at her ankles had been new then and almost unscarred. There was no
wedding ring on her finger.

Otherwise, she
thought, she was the same.

She was
young, fit. An athlete, Palmer told
her. Very disciplined, mind and body. A long-distance runner -- Olympic
hopeful. She knew how to block pain, how to focus on a goal. She'd be at the
top end of the scale, you see. Just as Leroy Greene was at the bottom. He'd
fogged his mind with illegals for years. No tolerance for disruptive stimuli.
He lost all control even before the application of pain. His mind broke as soon
as he regained consciousness and found himself strapped to the table. But
Michelle...

She fought?
She held out?

Palmer nodded
cheerfully. She was magnificent, really. She struggled against the
restraints, then stopped when she understood that she wouldn't be able to free
herself. There was fear. The monitors registered her rise in pulse rate, blood
pressure, all vital physical and emotional signs. I have excellent equipment.

Yeah, I've
seen it. Top of the line.

It's vital
work. His eyes had clouded then,
unfocused as they did when he spoke of the import of his experiments. You'll
see if you review the data on Michelle that she centered her fear, used it to
keep herself alive. She controlled it, initially, tried to reason with me. She
made promises, she pretended to understand my research, even to help me. She
was clever. When she understood that wouldn't help her, she cursed me, pumping
up her adrenaline as I introduced new pain stimuli.

“He broke her
feet,” Eve said, knowing Roarke was watching behind her. “Then her arms. He was
right about his equipment back then. He had electrodes that when attached to
different parts of the body, or placed in various orifices, administered
graduating levels of electric shock. He kept Michelle alive for three days
until the torture broke her. She was begging for him to kill her toward the
end. He used a rope and pulley system to hang her -- gradual strangulation. She
was nineteen.”

Roarke laid
his hands on her shoulders. “You stopped him once, Eve, you'll stop him again.”

“Damn right I
will.”

She looked up
when she heard someone coming quickly down the corridor. “Save data, and file,”
she ordered just as Nadine Furst came into the room. Perfect, she thought, a
visit from one of Channel 75's top on-air reporters. The fact that they were
friends didn't make Eve any less wary.

“Out paying
Christmas calls, Nadine?”

“I got a
present this morning.” Nadine tossed a disc on the desk.

Eve looked at
it, then back up at Nadine's face. It was pale, the sharp features drawn. For
once, Nadine wasn't perfectly groomed with lip dye, enhancers, and every hair
in place. She looked more than frazzled, Eve realized. She looked afraid.

“What's the
problem?”

“David
Palmer.”

Slowly Eve got
to her feet. “What about him?”

“Apparently he
knows what I do for a living, and that we're friendly. He sent me that.” She
glanced back down at the disc, struggled to suppress a shudder. “Hoping I'd do
a feature story on him -- and his work -- and share the contents of his disc
with you. Can I have a drink? Something strong.”

Roarke came
around the desk and eased her into a chair. “Sit down. You're cold,” he
murmured when he took her hands.

“Yeah, I am.
I've been cold ever since I ran that disc.”

“I'll get you
a brandy.”

Nadine nodded
in agreement, then fisted her hands in her lap and looked at Eve. “There are
two other people on the recording. One of them is Judge Wainger. What's left of
Judge Wainger. And there's a woman, but I can't recognize her. She's -- he's
already started on her.”

“Here.” Roarke
brought the snifter, gently wrapped Nadine's hands around the bowl. “Drink
this.”

“Okay.” She
lifted the glass, took one long sip, and felt the blast of heat explode in her
gut. “Dallas, I've seen a lot of bad things. I've reported them, I've studied
them. But I've never seen anything like this. I don't know how you deal with
it, day after day.”

“One day at a
time.” Eve picked up the disc. “You don't have to watch this again.”

“Yes.” Nadine
drank again, let out a long breath. “I do.”

Eve turned the
disc over in her hand. It was a standard-use model. They'd never trace it. She
slid it into her unit. “Copy disc and run, display on screen.”

David Palmer's
youthful and handsome face swam onto the wall screen.

“Ms. Furst, or
may I call you Nadine? So much more personal that way, and my work is very
personal to me. I've admired your work, by the way. It's one of the reasons I'm
trusting you to get my story on air. You believe in what you do, don't you,
Nadine?”

His eyes were
serious now, professional to professional, his face holding all the youth and
innocence of a novitiate at the altar. “Those of us who reach for perfection
believe in what we do,” he continued. “I'm aware that you have a friendly
relationship with Lieutenant Dallas. The lieutenant and I also have a
relationship, perhaps not so friendly, but we do connect, and I do admire her
stamina. I hope you'll share the contents of this disc with her as soon as
possible. By this time she should already be heading the investigation into the
death of Judge Wainger.”

His smile went
bright now, and just a little mad at the edges. “Hello, Lieutenant. You'll
excuse me if I just conclude my business with Nadine. I want Dallas to be
closely involved. It's important to me. You will tell my story, won't you,
Nadine? Let the public themselves judge, not some narrow-minded fool in a black
robe.”

The next scene
slipped seamlessly into place, the audio high so that the woman's screams
seemed to rip the air in the room where Eve sat, watching.

Judge
Wainger's body was bound hand and foot and suspended several inches from a
plain concrete floor. A basic pulley system this time, Eve mused. He'd taken
time to set up some of the niceties, but it wasn't yet the complex, and yes, ingenious,
system of torture that he'd created before.

Still, he
worked very well.

Wainger's face
was livid with agony, the muscles twitching as Palmer burned letters in his
chest with a hand laser. He only moaned, his head lolling. Nearby, a system of
monitors beeped and buzzed.

“He's failing,
you see,” Palmer said briskly in a voice-over. “His mind is moving beyond the
pain, as it can no longer endure it. His system will attempt to shut down into
unconsciousness. That can be reversed, as you'll see here.” On screen, he
flipped a switch. There was a high whine, then Wainger's body jerked. This time
he screamed.

Across the
room a woman shrieked and sobbed. The cage she was in swung wildly on its cable
and was only big enough to allow her to crouch on hands and knees. A dark fall
of hair covered most of her face, but Eve knew her.

Stephanie Ring
was Palmer's.

When he
turned, engaged another control, the cage sparked and shook. The woman let out
a piercing wail, shuddered convulsively, then collapsed.

Palmer turned
to the camera, smiled. “She's distracting, but I have only so much time. It's
necessary to begin one subject before completing work on another. But her turn
will come shortly. Subject Wainger's heart is failing. The data on him are
nearly complete.”

Using the
ropes, he manually lowered Wainger to the floor. Eve noted the flex and bunch
of muscles in Palmer's arms. “Dave's been pumping,” she murmured. “Getting in
shape. He knew he'd have to work harder this round. He likes to prepare.”

Palmer slipped
a perfectly knotted noose around Wainger's neck and meticulously slid the
trailing end through a metal ring in the ceiling. Leading it down, he threaded
it through another ring in the floor, then pulled out the slack until Wainger
rose to his knees, then his feet, and began gasping for air.

“Stop it, will
you?” Nadine leapt to her feet. “I can't watch this again. I thought I could. I
can't.”

“Stop disc.”
Eve waited until the screen went blank, then went over to crouch in front of
Nadine. “I'm sorry.”

“No. I'm sorry.
I thought I was tough.”

“You are.
Nobody's this tough.”

Nadine shook
her head and, finishing her brandy with one deep gulp, set the snifter aside.
“You are. You don't let it get to you.”

“It gets to
me. But this is for me. I'm going to have a couple of uniforms come and take
you home. They're going to hang with you everywhere until Palmer's down.”

“You think
he'll come after me?”

“No, but why
take chances? Go home, Nadine. Put it away.”

But after
she'd asked Roarke to take Nadine downstairs to wait for the escort, Eve
finished watching the disc. And at the end her eyes met Palmer's as he moved
toward the camera.

“Subject
Wainger died at midnight, December twenty-fourth. You'll last longer, Dallas.
We both know that. You'll be my most fascinating subject. I have such wonders
planned for you. You'll find me. I know you will. I'm counting on it. Happy
holidays.”

CHAPTER THREE

Stephanie
Ring's car was still in its permit slot in the garage. Her luggage was neatly
stowed in the trunk. Eve circled the vehicle, searching for any sign of
struggle, any evidence that might have been dropped and gone unnoticed during
the snatch.

“He's got two
basic MOs,” she said, as much to herself as to the uniforms waiting nearby. “One
is to gain entrance into the victims' homes by a ruse -- delivery, repair, or
service con; the other is to come on them in an unpopulated area. He spends
time getting to know their routines and habits, the usual routes and schedules.
He keeps all that in a log -- very organized, scientific, along with bio data
on each of them.”

They weren't
lab rats to him, she mused. It was personal, individualized. That was what
excited him.

“In either
case,” she went on, “he uses a stunner, takes them down quickly, then
transports them in his own vehicle. Security cameras operational in here?”

“Yes, sir.”
One of the uniforms passed her a sealed package of discs. “We confiscated them
for the last three days, assuming that the subject may have stalked the victim
previous to her abduction.”

Eve lifted a
brow. “Miller, right?”

“Sir.”

“Good
thinking. There's nothing more you can do here. Go home and eat some goose.”

They didn't
exactly race away, but neither did they linger. Eve put the package in her bag
and turned to Roarke. “Why don't you do the same, pal? I'll only be a couple of
hours.”

“We'll only be
a couple of hours.”

“I don't need
an aide to do a pass through Ring's apartment.”

Roarke simply
took her arm and led her back to the car. “You let the two uniforms go,” he
began as he started the engine. “Everyone else on Palmer's list is under guard.
Why aren't you?”

“We covered
that already.”

“Partially.”
He reversed and headed out of the garage. “But I know you, Lieutenant. You're
hoping he'll shuffle the order and come after you next. And you don't want some
big-shouldered uniforms scaring him off.”

For a moment
she just drummed her fingers on her knee. In less than a year, the man had
learned her inside and out. She wasn't entirely comfortable with that. “And
your point would be?”

He nearly
smiled at the annoyance in her voice. “I admire my wife's courage, her
dedication to duty.”

“You tossed in
'my wife' to irritate me, didn't you?”

“Of course.”
Satisfied, he picked up her hand, kissed the knuckles. “I'm sticking, Eve. Deal
with it.”

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

The pass
through Stephanie Ring's apartment was no more than routine, and it turned up
nothing but the tidy life of a single career woman who enjoyed surrounding
herself with attractive things, spending her city salary on a stylish wardrobe.

Eve thought of
the naked woman crouched like an animal in a cage, screaming in terror.

He's
killing her now. Eve knew it. And she
had no power to stop him.

When she was
back in her home office, she reviewed the disc Palmer had sent Nadine. This
time she willed herself to ignore what was happening and focus only on the
surroundings.

“No windows,”
she commented. “The floor and walls look like concrete and old brick. The whole
area can't be over thirty feet by twenty. It's probably a basement. Computer,
pause. Enhance sector eight through fifteen. Magnify.”

She paced as
the computer went to work, then moved closer to the screen. “There, that's a
stair tread. Steps, part of a railing. Behind it is some sort of -- what is it
-- old furnace unit or water tank. He's found himself a hole. It has to be
private,” she continued, studying the view. “He can't do his work in a building
where people might hear. Even if it's soundproofed, he'd risk someone poking
around. Maintenance crew, repair team. Anything like that.”

“Not an
apartment or office building,” Roarke agreed. “And with the steps it's not
likely a storage facility. From the look of the furnace, it's a good-sized
building, but far from new. Nothing built in the last fifteen or twenty years
would have had a tank furnace installed. He'd want something in the city,
wouldn't he?”

“Yeah, he'd
want to be close to all of his marks. He wouldn't go for the 'burbs and even
the boroughs aren't likely. Dave's a true urbanite and New York's his turf.
Private home. Has to be. But how did he get his hands on a private residence?”

“Friends?”
Roarke suggested. “Family?”

“Palmer didn't
have a tight circle of friends. He's a loner. He has parents. They relocated
after the trial. Went under the Victim and Survivor's Protection Act.”

“Sealed
files.”

She heard the
faintest trace of humor in his voice, turned to scowl at him. For a moment she
wrestled with procedure. She could get clearance to access the Palmers'
location. And it would take at least two days to hack through the red tape for
authorization. Or she could hand the problem to Roarke and have what she needed
in minutes.

She could hear
Stephanie Ring's screams echoing in her head.

“You'll have
to use the unregistered equipment. CompuGuard will have an automatic block on
their file.”

“It won't take
long.”

“I'm going to
keep working on this.” She gestured toward the screen. “He might have slipped
up just enough to have let something identifiable come through.”

“All right.”
But he crossed to her, framed her face in his hands. Lowering his head, he
kissed her, long and slow and deep. And felt, as he did, some of the rigid tension
in her body ease.

“I can handle
this, Roarke.”

“Whether you
can or not, you will. Would it hurt to hold on to me, just for a minute?”

“Guess not.”
She slipped her arms around him, felt the familiar lines, the familiar warmth.
Her grip tightened. “Why wasn't it enough to stop him once? Why wasn't it
enough to put him away? What good is it if you do your job and it comes back
this way?”

He held her
and said nothing.

“He wants to
show me he can do it all again. He wants to take me through all the steps and
stages, the way he did before. Only this time as they're happening. 'Look how
clever I am, Dallas. ' “

“Knowing that,
understanding that, will help you stop him a second time.”

“Yeah.” She
eased back. “Get me the data so I can hammer at his parents.”

Roarke skimmed
a finger over the dent in her chin. “You'll let me watch, won't you. It's so
stimulating to see you browbeat witnesses.”

When she
laughed, as he'd hoped she would, he went to his private room to circumvent
CompuGuard and officially sealed files.

She'd barely
had time to review another section of the recording before he came back.

“It couldn't
have been that easy.”

“Yes.” He
smiled and passed her a new data disc. “It could. Thomas and Helen Palmer, now
known as Thomas and Helen Smith -- which shows just how imaginative bureaucrats
can be, currently reside in a small town called Leesboro in rural
Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania.”
Eve glanced toward her 'link, considered, then looked back at Roarke. “It
wouldn't take long to get there if you had access to some slick transpo.”

Roarke looked
amused. “Which slick transpo would you prefer, Lieutenant?”

“That mini-jet
of yours would get us there in under an hour.”

“Then why
don't we get started?”

If Eve had
been more fond of heights, she might have enjoyed the fast, smooth flight
south. As it was, she sat, jiggling a foot to relieve a case of nerves while
Roarke piloted them over what she imagined some would consider a picturesque
range of mountains.

To her they
were just rocks, and the fields between them just dirt.

“I'm only
going to say this once,” she began. “And only because it's Christmas.”

“Banking for
landing,” he warned her as he approached the private airstrip. “What are you
only going to say once?”

“That maybe
all these toys of yours aren't a complete waste of time. Over-indulgent, maybe,
but not a complete waste of time.”

“Darling, I'm
touched.”

Once they were
on the ground, they transferred from the snazzy little two-person jet to the
car that Roarke had waiting. Of course, it couldn't be a normal vehicle, Eve
mused as she studied it. It was a sleek black bullet of a car, built for style
and speed.

“I'll drive.”
She held out a hand for the keycode the attendant had given him. “You
navigate.”

Roarke considered
her as he tossed the code in his hand. “Why?”

“Because I'm
the one with the badge.” She snatched the code on its upward arc and smirked at
him.

“I'm a better
driver.”

She snorted as
they climbed in. “You like to hotdog. That doesn't make you better. Strap in,
ace. I'm in a hurry.”

She punched it
and sent them flying away from the terminal and onto a winding rural road that
was lined with snow-laced trees and sheer rock.

Roarke
programmed their destination and studied the route offered by the onboard
computer. “Follow this road for two miles, turn left for another ten point
three, then next left for five point eight.”

By the time
he'd finished, she was already making the first left. She spotted a narrow
creek, water fighting its way through ice, over rock. A scatter of houses,
trees climbing steeply up hills, a few children playing with new airskates or
boards in snow-covered yards.

“Why do people
live in places like this? There's nothing here. You see all that sky?” she
asked Roarke. “You shouldn't be able to see that much sky from down here. It
can't be good for you. And where do they eat? We haven't passed a single
restaurant, glide cart, deli, nothing.”

“Cozily?”
Roarke suggested. “Around the kitchen table.”

“All the time?
Jesus.” She shuddered.

He laughed,
smoothed a finger over her hair. “Eve, I adore you.”

“Right.” She
tapped the brakes to make the next turn. “What am I looking for?”

“Third house
on the right. There, that two-story prefab, mini-truck in the drive.”

She slowed,
scanning the house as she turned in behind the truck. There were Christmas
lights along the eaves, a wreath on the door, and the outline of a decorated
tree behind the front window.

“No point in
asking you to wait in the car, I guess.”

“None,” he
agreed and got out.

“They're not
going to be happy to see me,” Eve warned him as they crossed the shoveled walk
to the front door. “If they refuse to talk to me, I'm going to give them some
hard shoves. If it comes down to it, you just follow the lead.”

She pressed
the buzzer, shivered.

“You should
have worn the coat I gave you. Cashmere's warm.”

“I'm not
wearing that on duty.” It was gorgeous, she thought. And made her feel soft. It
wasn't the sort of thing that worked for a cop.

And when the
door opened, Eve was all cop.

Helen Palmer
had changed her hair and her eyes. Subtle differences in shades and shapes, but
enough to alter her looks. It was still a pretty face, very like her son's. Her
automatic smile of greeting faded as she recognized Eve.

“You remember
me, Mrs. Palmer?”

“What are you
doing here?” Helen put a hand high on the doorjamb as if to block it. “How did
you find us? We're under protection.”

“I don't
intend to violate that. I have a crisis situation. You'd have been informed
that your son has escaped from prison.”

Helen pressed
her lips together, hunched her shoulders as a defense against the cold that
whipped through the open door. “They said they were looking for him, assured us
that they'd have him back in custody, back in treatment very soon. He isn't
here. He doesn't know where we are.”

“Can I come
in, Mrs. Palmer?”

“Why do you
have to rake this all up again?” Tears swam into her eyes, seeming as much from
frustration as grief. “My husband and I are just getting our lives back. We've
had no contact with David in nearly three years.”

“Honey? Who's
at the door? You're letting the cold in.” A tall man with a dark sweep of hair
came smiling to the door. He wore an old cardigan sweater and ancient jeans
with a pair of obviously new slippers. He blinked once, twice, then laid his
hand on his wife's shoulder. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Dallas, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mr.
Palmer. I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“Let them in,
Helen.”

“Oh, God,
Tom.”

“Let them in.”
His fingers rubbed over her shoulder before he drew her back. “You must be
Roarke.” Tom worked up what nearly passed for a smile as he offered Roarke his
hand. “I recognize you. Please come in and sit down.”

“Tom, please
-- “

“Why don't you
make some coffee?” He turned and pressed his lips to his wife's brow. He
murmured something to her, and she let out a shuddering breath and nodded.

“I'll make
this as quick as I can, Mr. Palmer,” Eve told him, as Helen walked quickly down
a central hallway.

“You dealt
very fairly with us during an unbearable time, Lieutenant.” He showed them into
a small living area. “I haven't forgotten that. Helen -- my wife's been on edge
all day. For several days,” he corrected himself. “Since we were informed that
David escaped. We've worked very hard to keep that out of the center, but...”

He gestured
helplessly and sat down.

Eve remembered
these decent people very well, their shock and grief over what their son was.
They had raised him with love, with discipline, with care, and still they had
been faced with a monster.

There had been
no abuse, no cruelty, no underlying gruel for that monster to feed on. Mira's
testing and analysis had corroborated Eve's impression of a normal couple who'd
given their only child their affection and the monetary and social advantages
that had been at their disposal.

“I don't have
good news for you, Mr. Palmer. I don't have easy news.”

He folded his
hands in his lap. “He's dead.”

“No.”

Tom closed his
eyes. “God help me. I'd hoped -- I'd actually hoped he was.” He got up quickly
when he heard his wife coming back. “Here, I'll take that.” He bent to take the
tray she carried. “We'll get through this, Helen.”

“I know. I
know we will.” She came in, sat, busied herself pouring the coffee she'd made.
“Lieutenant, do you think David's come back to New York?”

“We know he
has.” She hesitated, then decided they would hear the news soon enough through
the media. “Early this morning the body of Judge Wainger was found in
Rockefeller Plaza. It's David's work,” she continued as Helen moaned. “He's
contacted me, with proof. There's no doubt of it.”

“He was
supposed to be given treatment. Kept away from people so he couldn't hurt them,
hurt himself.”

“Sometimes the
system fails, Mrs. Palmer. Sometimes you can do everything right, and it just
fails.”

Helen rose,
walked to the window, and stood looking out. “You said something like that to
me before. To us. That we'd done everything right, everything we could. That it
was something in David that had failed. That was kind of you, Lieutenant, but
you can't know what it's like, you can't know how it feels to know that a
monster has come from you.”

No, Eve
thought, but she knew what it was to come from a monster, to have been raised
by one for the first eight years of her life. And she lived with it.

“I need your
help,” she said instead. “I need you to tell me if you have any idea where he
might go, who he might go to. He has a place,” she continued. “A private place
where he can work. A house, a small building somewhere in New York. In the city
or very close by.”

“He has
nowhere.” Tom lifted his hands. “We sold everything when we relocated. Our
home, my business, Helen's. Even our holiday place in the Hamptons. We cut all
ties. The house where David -- where he lived that last year -- was sold as
well. We live quietly here, simply. The money we'd accumulated, the money from
the sales is sitting in an account. We haven't had the heart to... we don't
need it.”

“He had money
of his own,” Eve prompted.

“Yes,
inheritance, a trust fund. It was how he financed what he was doing.” Tom
reached out a hand for his wife's and clasped her fingers tightly. “We donated
that money to charity. Lieutenant, all the places where he might have gone are
in the hands of others now.”

“All right.
You may think of something later. However far-fetched, please contact me.” She
rose. “When David's in custody again, I'll let you know. After that, I'll
forget where you are.”

Eve said
nothing more until she and Roarke were in the car and headed back. “They still
love him. After all he did, after what he is, there's a part of them that loves
him.”

“Yes, and
enough, I think, to help you stop him, if they knew how.”

“No one ever
cared for us that way.” She took her eyes off the road briefly, met his. “No
one ever felt that bond.”

“No.” He
brushed the hair from her cheek. “Not until we found each other. Don't grieve,
Eve.”

“He has his
mother's eyes,” she murmured. “Soft and blue and clear. She's the one who had
to change them, I imagine, because she couldn't look in the mirror and face
them every morning.”

She sighed,
shook it off.

“But he can,”
she said quietly.

CHAPTER FOUR

There was
nothing else to do, no other data to examine or analyze, no other route to
check. Tomorrow, she knew, there would be. Now she could only wait.

Eve walked
into the bedroom with some idea of taking a catnap. They needed to salvage some
of the day, she thought. To have their Christmas dinner together, to squeeze in
some sense of normalcy.

The strong,
dreamy scent of pine made her shake her head. The man had gone wild for
tradition on this, their first Christmas together. Christ knew what he had paid
for the live trees he'd placed throughout the house. And this one, the one that
stood by the window in their bedroom, he'd insisted they decorate together.

It mattered to
him. And with some surprise she realized it had come to matter to her.

“Tree lights
on,” she ordered, and smiled a little as she watched them blink and flash.

She stepped
toward the seating area, released her weapon harness, and shrugged it off. She
was sitting on the arm of the sofa taking off her boots when Roarke came in.

“Good. I was
hoping you'd take a break. I've got some calls to make. Why don't you let me
know when you're ready for a meal?”

She angled her
head and studied him as he stood just inside the doorway. She let her second
boot drop and stood up slowly. “Come here.”

Recognizing
the glint in her eyes, he felt the light tingle of lust begin to move through
his blood. “There?”

“You heard me,
slick.”

Keeping his
eyes on hers he walked across the room. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

Traditions,
Eve thought, had to start somewhere. She fisted a hand in the front of his
shirt, straining the silk as she pulled him a step closer. “I want you naked,
and quick. So unless you want me to get rough, strip.”

His smile was
as cocky as hers and made her want to sink in with her teeth. “Maybe I like it
rough.”

“Yeah?” She
began to back him up toward the bed. “Well then, you're going to love this.”

She moved
fast, the only signal was the quick flash of her eyes before she ripped his
shirt open and sent buttons flying. He gripped her hips, squeezing hard as she
fixed her teeth on his shoulder and bit.

“Christ.
Christ! I love your body. Give it to me.”

“You want it?”
He jerked her up to her toes. “You'll have to take it.”

When his mouth
would have closed hotly over hers, she pivoted. He countered. She came in low
and might have flipped him if he hadn't anticipated her move. They'd gone hand
to hand before, with very satisfying results.

They ended
face-to-face again, breath quickening. “I'm taking you down,” she warned him.

“Try it.”

They grappled,
both refusing to give way. The momentum took them up the stairs of the platform
to the bed. She slipped a hand between his legs, gently squeezed. It was a move
she'd used before. Even as the heat shot straight down the center of his body
to her palm, he shifted, slid under her guard, and flipped her onto the bed.

She rolled,
came up in a crouch. “Come on, tough guy.”

She was
grinning now, her face flushed with battle, desire going gold in her eyes and
the lights of the tree sparkling behind her.

“You look
beautiful, Eve.”

That had her
blinking, straightening from the fighting stance and gaping at him. Even the
man who loved her had never accused her of beauty. “Huh?”

It was all she
managed before he leapt at her and took her out with a mid-body tackle.

“Bastard.” She
nearly giggled it even as she scissored up and managed to roll on top of him.
But he used the impetus to keep going until he had her pinned again.
“Beautiful, my ass.”

“Your ass is
beautiful.” The elbow to his gut knocked some of the breath out of him, but he
sucked more in. “And so's the rest of you. I'm going to have your beautiful
ass, and the rest of you.”

She bucked,
twisted, nearly managed to slip out from under him. Then his mouth closed over
her breast, sucking, nipping through her shirt. She moaned, arched up against
him, and the fist she'd clenched in his hair dragged him closer rather than
yanking him away.

When he tore
at her shirt, she reared up, hooking strong, long legs around his waist,
finding his mouth with hers again as he pushed back to kneel in the center of
the bed.

They went over
in a tangle of limbs, hands rough and groping. And flesh began to slide damply
over flesh.

He took her up
and over the first time, hard and fast, those clever fingers knowing her
weaknesses, her strengths, her needs. Quivering, crying out, she let herself
fly on the edgy power of the climax.

Then they were
rolling again, gasps and moans and murmurs. Heat coming in tidal waves, nerves
raw and needy. Her mouth was a fever on his as she straddled him.

“Let me, let
me, let me.” She chanted it against his mouth as she rose up. Her hands linked
tight to his as she took him inside her. He filled her, body, mind, heart.

Fast and full
of fury, she drove them both as she'd needed to from the moment he'd come into
the room. It flooded into her, swelled inside her, that unspeakable pleasure,
the pressure, the frantic war to end, to prolong.

She threw her
head back, clung to it, that razor's edge. “Go over,” She panted it out,
fighting to clear her vision, to focus on that glorious face. “Go over first,
and take me with you.”

She watched
his eyes, that staggering blue go dark as midnight, felt him leap over with one
last, hard thrust. With her hands still locked in his, she threw herself over
with him.

And when the
energy slid away from her like wax from a melting candle, she slipped down,
quivering even as she pressed her face into his neck.

“I won,” she
managed.

“Okay.”

Her lips
twitched at the smug, and exhausted, satisfaction in his voice. “I did. I got
just what I wanted from you, pal.”

“Thank
Christ.” He shifted until he could cradle her against him. “Take a nap, Eve.”

“Just an
hour.” Knowing he would never sleep longer than that himself, she wrapped
around him to keep him close.

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

When she woke
at two a. m., Eve decided the brief pre-dinner nap had thrown her system off.
Now she was fully awake, her mind engaged and starting to click through the
information and evidence she had so far.

David Palmer
was here, in New York. Somewhere out in the city, happily going about his work.
And her gut told her Stephanie Ring was already dead.

He wouldn't
have such an easy time getting to the others on his list, she thought as she turned
in bed. Ego would push him to try, and he'd make a mistake. In all likelihood
he'd already made one. She just hadn't picked up on it yet.

Closing her
eyes, she tried to slip into Palmer's mind, as she had years before when she'd
been hunting him.

He loved his
work, had loved it even when he'd been a boy and doing his experiments on
animals. He'd managed to hide those little deaths, to put on a bright, innocent
face. Everyone who'd known him -- parents, teachers, neighbors -- had spoken of
a cheerful, helpful boy, a bright one who studied hard and caused no trouble.

Yet some of
the classic elements had been there, even in childhood. He'd been a loner,
obsessively neat, compulsively organized. He'd never had a healthy sexual
relationship and had been socially awkward with women. They'd found hundreds of
journal discs, going back to his tenth year, carefully relating his theories,
his goals, and his accomplishments.

And with time,
with practice, with study, he'd gotten very, very good at his work.

Where would
you set up, Dave? It would have to be somewhere comfortable. You like your
creature comforts. You must have hated the lack of them in prison. Pissed you
off, didn't it? So now you're coming after the ones who put you there.

That's a
mistake, letting us know the marks in advance. But it's ego, too. It's really
you against me.

That's another
mistake, because no one knows you better.

A house, she
thought. But not just any house. It would have to be in a good neighborhood,
close to good restaurants. Those years of prison food must have offended your
palate. You'd need furniture, comfortable stuff, with some style. Linens, good
ones. And an entertainment complex -- got to watch the screen or you won't know
what people are saying about you.

And all that
takes money.

When she sat
up in bed, Roarke stirred beside her. “Figure it out?”

“He's got a
credit line somewhere. I always wondered if he had money stashed, but it didn't
seem to matter since he was never getting out to use it. I was wrong. Money's
power, and he found a way to use it from prison.”

She tossed
back the duvet, started to leap out of bed when the 'link beeped. She stared at
it a moment, and knew.

CHAPTER FIVE

Two teenagers
looking for a little adventure snuck out of their homes, met at a prearranged
spot, and took their new scoot-bikes for a spin in Central Park.

They'd thought
at first that Stephanie Ring was a vagrant, maybe a licensed beggar or a
chemi-head sleeping it off, and they started to give her a wide berth.

But vagrants
didn't make a habit of stretching out naked on the carousel in Central Park.

Eve had both
of them stashed in a black-and-white. One had been violently ill, and the
brittle air still carried the smear of vomit. She'd ordered the uniforms to set
up a stand of lights so the area was under the glare of a false day.

Stephanie
hadn't been beaten, nor had her hair been cut. Palmer believed in variety.
There were dozens of long, thin slices over her arms and legs, the flesh around
the wounds shriveled and discolored. Something toxic, Eve imagined, something
that when placed on a relatively minor open wound would cause agony. The blood
had been allowed to drip and dry. Her feet speared out at sharp angles, in a
parody of a ballet stance. Dislocated.

Carved into
her midriff were the signature block letters.

LET'S KILL
ALL THE LAWYERS

He had finally
killed this one, Eve thought, with the slow, torturous strangulation he was
most fond of. Eve examined the noose, found the rope identical to that used on
Judge Wainger.

Another
mistake, Dave. Lots of little oversights this time around.

She reached
for her field kit and began the routine that followed murder.

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

She went home
to write her report, wanting the quiet she'd find there as opposed to the
post-holiday confusion at Central. She shot a copy to her commander, then sent
messages to both Peabody and Feeney. Once her aide and the top man in the
Electronics Detective Division woke and checked their 'links, she was pulling
them in.

She fueled on
coffee, then set about the tedious task of peeling the layers from Palmer's
financial records.

It was barely
dawn when the door between her office and Roarke's opened. He came in, fully
dressed, and she could hear the hum of equipment already at work in the room
behind him.

“You working
at home today?” she said it casually, sipping coffee as she studied him.

“Yes.” He
glanced down at her monitor. “Following the money, Lieutenant?”

“At the
moment. You're not my bodyguard, Roarke.”

He merely
smiled. “And who, I wonder, could be more interested in your body?”

“I'm a cop. I
don't need a sitter.”

He reached
down, cupped her chin. “What nearly happened to Peabody two nights ago?”

“It didn't
happen. And I'm not having you hovering around when you should be off doing
stuff.”

“I can do
stuff from here just as easily and efficiently as I can from midtown. You're
wasting time arguing. And I doubt you'll find your money trail through Palmer's
official records.”

“I know it.”
The admission covered both statements, and frustrated her equally. “I have to
start somewhere. Go away and let me work.”

“Done with me,
are you?” He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers.

The sound of a
throat being loudly and deliberately cleared came from the doorway. “Sorry.”
Peabody managed most of a smile. She was pale, and more than a little
heavy-eyed, but her uniform was stiff and polished, as always.

“You're
early.” Eve rose, then slid her hands awkwardly into her pockets.

“The message
said to report as soon as possible.”

“I'll leave
you two to work.” Alone, Roarke thought, the two of them would slip past the
discomfort faster. “It's good to see you, Peabody. Lieutenant,” he added before
he closed the door between the rooms, “you might want to check the names of
deceased relatives. The transfer and disbursement of funds involving accounts
with the same last name and blood ties are rarely noticed.”

“Yeah, right.
Thanks.” Eve shifted her feet. The last time she'd seen her aide, Peabody had
been wrapped in a blanket, her face blotchy from tears. “You okay?”

“Yeah,
mostly.”

Mostly, my
ass, Eve thought. “Look, I shouldn't have called you in on this. Take a couple
of more days to level off.”

“Sir. I'd do
better if I got back to work, into routine. Sitting home watching videos and
eating soy chips isn't the way I want to spend another day. Work clears it out
quicker.”

Because she
believed that herself, Eve moved her shoulders. “Then get some coffee, Peabody,
I've got plenty of work here.”

“Yes, sir.”
She stepped forward, pulling a small wrapped box from her pocket, setting it on
the desk as she went to the AutoChef. “Your Christmas present. I didn't get a
chance to give it to you before.”

“I guess we
were a little busy.” Eve toyed with the ribbon. Gifts always made her feel odd,
but she could sense Peabody's eyes on her. She ripped off the red foil, opened
the lid. It was a silver star, a little dented, a bit discolored.

“It's an old
sheriff's badge,” Peabody told her. “I don't guess it's like Wyatt Earp's or
anything, but it's official. I thought you'd get a kick out of it. You know,
the long tradition of law and order.”

Absurdly
touched, Eve grinned. “Yeah. It's great.” For the fun of it, she took it out
and pinned it to her shirt. “Does this make you the deputy?”

“It suits you,
Dallas. You'd've stood up wherever, whenever.”

Looking up,
Eve met her eyes. “You stand, Peabody. I wouldn't have called you in today if I
thought different.”

“I guess I
needed to hear that. Thanks. Well...” She hesitated, then lifted her brows in
question.

“Problem?”

“No, I
just...” She pouted, giving her square, sober face a painfully young look.
“Hmmm.”

“You didn't
like your present?” Eve said lightly. “You'll have to take that up with
Leonardo.”

“What present?
What's he got to do with it?”

“He made that
wardrobe for your undercover work. If you don't like it...”

“The clothes.”
Like magic, Peabody's face cleared. “I get to keep all those mag clothes? All
of them?”

“What the hell
am I supposed to do with them? Now are you going to stand around grinning like
an idiot or can I get on with things here?”

“I can grin
and work at the same time, sir.”

“Settle down.
Start a run and trace on this rope.” She pushed a hard-copy description across
the desk. “I want any sales within the last week, bulk sales. He uses a lot of
it.”

“Who?”

“We'll get to
that. Run the rope, then get me a list of private residences -- upscale -- sold
or rented in the metro area within the last week. Also private luxury vehicles
-- pickup or delivery on those within the last week. He needs transpo and he'd
go classy. The cage,” she muttered as she began to pace. “Where the hell did he
get the cage? Wildlife facility, domestic animal detention? We'll track it.
Start the runs, Peabody, I'll brief you when Feeney gets here.”

She'd called
in Feeney, Peabody thought as she sat down at a computer. It was big. Just what
she needed.

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

“You'll both
want to review the investigation discs, profiles, transcripts from the Palmer
case of three years ago. Feeney,” Eve added, “you'll remember most of it. You
tracked and identified the electronic equipment he used in those murders.”

“Yeah, I
remember the little bastard.” Feeney sat, scowling into his coffee. His
habitually weary face was topped by wiry red hair that never seemed to decide
which direction it wanted to take.

He was wearing
a blue shirt, so painfully pressed and bright that Eve imagined it had come out
of its gift box only that morning. And would be comfortably rumpled by
afternoon.

“Because we
know him, his pattern, his motives, and in this case his victims or intended
victims, he's given us an edge. He knows that, enjoys that because he's sure
he'll be smarter.”

“He hates you,
Dallas.” Feeney's droopy eyes lifted, met hers. “He hated your ever-fucking
guts all along. You stopped him, then you played him until he spilled
everything. He'll come hard for you.”

“I hope you're
right, because I want the pleasure of taking him out again. He got the first
two on his list because he had a lead on us,” she continued. “The others have
been notified, warned, and are under guard. He may or may not make an attempt
to continue in order. But once he runs into a snag, he'll skip down.”

“And come for
you,” Peabody put in.

“Everything
the others did happened because I busted him. Under the whack is a very logical
mind. Everything he does has a reason. It's his reason, so it's bent -- but
it's there.”

She glanced at
her wrist unit. “I've got a meeting with Mira at her residence in twenty
minutes. I'm going to leave it to Feeney to fill you in on any holes in this
briefing, Peabody. Once you have the lists from the runs I ordered, do a
probability scan. See if we can narrow the field a bit. Feeney, when you review
the disc he sent through Nadine, you might be able to tag some of the
equipment. You get a line on it, we can trace the source. We do it in steps,
but we do it fast. If he misses on the list, he might settle for someone else,
anyone else. He's been out a week and already killed twice.”

She broke off
as her communicator signaled. She walked to retrieve her jacket as she
answered. Two minutes later she jammed it back in her pocket. And her eyes were
flat and cold.

“Make that
three times. He got to Carl Neissan.”

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

Eve was still
steaming when she rang the bell of Mira's dignified brownstone. The fact that
the guard on door duty demanded that she show her ID and had it verified before
entry mollified her slightly. If the man posted at Neissan's had done the same,
Palmer wouldn't have gotten inside.

Mira came down
the hall toward her. She was dressed casually in slacks and sweater, with soft
matching shoes. But there was nothing casual about her eyes. Before Eve could
speak, she lifted a hand.

“I appreciate
your coming here. We can talk upstairs in my office.” She glanced to the right
as a child's laughter bounced through an open doorway. “Under different
circumstances I'd introduce you to my family. But I'd rather not put them under
any more stress.”

“We'll leave
them out of it.”

“I wish that
were possible.” Saying nothing more, Mira started upstairs.

The house
reflected her, Eve decided. Calming colors, soft edges, perfect style. Her home
office was half the size of her official one and must at one time have been a
small bedroom. Eve noted that she'd furnished it with deep chairs and what she
thought of as a lady's desk, with curved legs and fancy carving.

Mira adjusted
the sunscreen on a window and turned to the mini AutoChef recessed into the
wall.

“You'll have
reviewed my original profile on David Palmer,” she began, satisfied that her
hands were steady as she programmed for tea. “I would stand by it, with a few
additions due to his time in prison.”

“I didn't come
for a profile. I've got him figured.”

“Do you?”

“I walked
around inside his head before. We both did.”

“Yes.” Mira
offered Eve a delicate cup filled with the fragrant tea they both knew she
didn't want. “In some ways he remains the exception to a great many rules. He
had a loving and advantaged childhood. Neither of his parents exhibits any
signs of emotional or psychological defects. He did well in school, more of an
over-achiever than under-, but nothing off the scale. Testing showed no brain
deformities, no physical abnormalities. There is no psychological or
physiological root for his condition.”

“He likes it,”
Eve said briefly. “Sometimes evil's its own root.”

“I want to
disagree,” Mira murmured. “The reasons, the whys of abnormal behavior are important
to me. But I have no reasons, no whys, for David Palmer.”

“That's not
your problem, Doctor. Mine is to stop him, and to protect the people he's
chosen. The first two on his list are dead.”

“Stephanie
Ring? You're sure.”

“Her body was
found this morning. Carl Neissan's been taken.”

This time
Mira's hand shook, rattling her cup in its saucer before she set it aside. “He
was under guard.”

“Palmer got
himself into a cop suit, knocked on the damn door, and posed as the relief. The
on-duty didn't question it. He went home to a late Christmas dinner. When the
morning duty came on, he found the house empty.”

“And the night
relief? The real one?”

“Inside the
trunk of his unit. Tranq'd and bound but otherwise unharmed. He hasn't come
around enough to be questioned yet. Hardly matters. We know it was Palmer. I'm
arranging for Justine Polinsky to be moved to a safe house. You'll want to pack
some things, Doctor. You're going under.”

“You know I
can't do that, Eve. This is as much my case as yours.”

“You're wrong.
You're a consultant, and that's it. I don't need consultation. I'm no longer
confident that you can be adequately protected in this location. I'm moving
you.”

“Eve -- “

“Don't fuck
with me.” It came out sharp, very close to mean, and Mira jerked back in surprise.
“I'm taking you into police custody. You can gather up some personal things or
you can go as you are. But you're going.”

Calling on the
control that ran within her like her own bloodstream, Mira folded her hands in
her lap. “And you? Will you be going under?”

“I'm not your
concern.”

“Of course you
are, Eve,” Mira said quietly, watching the storm of emotions in Eve's eyes.
“Just as I'm yours. And my family downstairs is mine. They're not safe.”

“I'll see to
it. I'll see to them.”

Mira nodded,
closed her eyes briefly. “It would be a great relief to me to know they were
away from here, and protected. It's difficult for me to cope when I'm worried
about their welfare.”

“He won't
touch them. I promise you.”

“I'll take
your word. Now as to my status -- “

“I didn't give
you multiple choices, Dr. Mira.”

“Just a
moment.” Composed again, Mira picked up her tea. “I think you'll agree... I
have every bit as much influence with your superiors as you do. It would hardly
serve either of us to play at tugging strings. I'm not being stubborn or
courageous,” she added. “Those are your traits.”

A ghost of a
smile curved her mouth when Eve frowned at her. “I admire them. You're also a
woman who can see past emotion to the goal. The goal is to stop David Palmer. I
can be of use. We both know it. With my family away I'll be less distracted.
And I can't be with them, Eve, because if I am I'll worry that he'll harm one
of them to get to me.”

She paused for
a moment, judged that Eve was considering. “I have no argument to having guards
here or at my office. In fact, I want them. Very much. I have no intention of
taking any unnecessary chances or risks. I'm just asking you to let me do my
work.”

“You can do
your work where I put you.”

“Eve.” Mira
drew a breath. “If you put both me and Justine out of his reach, there's the
very real possibility he'll take someone else.” She nodded. “You've considered
that already. He won't come for you until he's ready. You're the grand prize.
If no one else is accessible, he'll strike out. He'll want to keep to his
timetable, even if it requires a substitute.”

“I've got some
lines on him.”

“And you'll
find him. But if he believes I'm accessible, if I'm at least visible, he'll be
satisfied to focus his energies on getting through. I expect you to prevent
that.” She smiled again, easier now. “And I intend to do everything I can to
help you.”

“I can make
you go. All your influence won't matter if I toss you in restraints and have
you hauled out of here. You'll be pissed off, but you'll be safe.”

“I wouldn't
put it past you,” Mira agreed. “But you know I'm right.”

“I'm doubling
your guards. You're wearing a bracelet. You work here. You're not to leave the
house for any reason.” Her eyes flashed when Mira started to protest. “You push
me on this, you're going to find out what it feels like to wear cuffs.” Eve
rose. “Your guards will do hourly check-ins. Your 'link will be monitored.”

“That hardly
makes me appear accessible.”

“He'll know
you're here. That's going to have to be enough. I've got work to do.” Eve
started for the door, hesitated, then spoke without turning around. “Your
family, they matter to you.”

“Yes, of
course.”

“You matter to
me.” She walked away quickly, before Mira could get shakily to her feet.

CHAPTER SIX

Eve headed to
the lab from Mira's. From there she planned a stop by the morgue and another at
Carl Neissan's before returning to her home office.

Remembering
Mira's concern about family, Eve called Roarke on her palm-link after she
parked and started into the building.

“Why are you
alone?” was the first thing he said to her.

“Cut it out.”
She flashed her badge at security, then headed across the lobby and down toward
the labs. “I'm in a secured facility, surrounded by rent-a-cops, monitors, and
lab dorks. I've got a job to do. Let me do it.”

“He's gotten
three out of six.”

She stopped,
rolled her eyes. “Oh, I get it. Shows what kind of faith you have in me. I
guess being a cop for ten years makes me as easy a fish as a seventy-year-old
judge and a couple of soft lawyers.”

“You annoy me,
Eve.”

“Why? Because
I'm right?”

“Yes. And
snotty about it.” But his smile warmed a little. “Why did you call?”

“So I could be
snotty. I'm at the lab, about to tackle Dickhead. I've got a few stops to make
after this. I'll check in.”

It was a
casual way to let him know she understood he worried. And he accepted, in the
same tone. “I've several 'link conferences this afternoon. Call in on the
private line. Watch your back, Lieutenant. I'm very fond of it.”

Satisfied, she
swung into the lab. Dickie, the chief tech, was there, looking sleepy-eyed and
pale as he stared at the readout on his monitor.

The last time
she'd been in the lab, there'd been a hell of a party going on. Now those who'd
bothered to come in worked sluggishly and looked worse.

“I need
reports, Dickie. Wainger and Ring.”

“Jesus,
Dallas.” He looked up mournfully, hunching his shoulders. “Don't you ever stay
home?”

Since he
looked ill, she gave him a little leeway. Silently she opened her jacket,
tapped the silver star pinned to her shirt. “I'm the law,” she said soberly.
“The law has no home.”

It made him
grin a little, then he moaned. “Man, I got the mother of all Christmas
hangovers.”

“Mix yourself
up a potion, Dickie, and get over it. Dave's got number three.”

“Dave who?”

“Palmer, David
Palmer.” She resisted letting out her impatience by cuffing him on the side of
the head. But she imagined doing it. “Did you read the damn directive?”

“I've only
been here twenty minutes. Jesus.” He rolled his shoulders, rubbed his face,
drew in three sharp nasal breaths. “Palmer? That freak's caged.”

“Not anymore.
He skipped and he's back in New York. Wainger and Ring are his.”

“Shit. Damn
shit.” He didn't look any less ill, but his eyes were alert now. “Fucking
Christmas week and we get the world's biggest psycho-freak.”

“Yeah, and
Happy New Year, too. I need the results, on the rope, on the paper. I want to
know what he used to carve the letters. You get any hair or fiber from the
sweepers?”

“No, wait,
just wait a damn minute.” He scooted his rolling chair down the counter, barked
orders at a computer, muttering as he scanned the data. “Bodies were clean. No
hair other than victim's. No fiber.”

“He always
kept them clean,” Eve murmured.

“Yeah, I
remember. I remember. Got some dust -- like grit between the toes, both
victims.”

“Concrete
dust.”

“Yeah. Get you
the grade, possible age. Now the rope.” He skidded back. “I was just looking at
it, just doing the test run. Nothing special or exotic about it. Standard nylon
strapping rope. Give me some time, I'll get you the make.”

“How much
time?”

“Two hours,
three tops. Takes longer when it's standard.”

“Make it
fast.” She swung away. “I'm in the field.”

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

She stopped at
the morgue next, to harass the chief medical examiner. It was more difficult to
intimidate Morse or to rush him.

No sexual
assault or molestation, no mutilation or injuries of genitalia.

Typical of
Palmer, Eve thought as she ran over Morse's prelim report in her head. He was
as highly asexual as anyone she'd come up against. She doubted that he even
thought of the gender of his victims other than as a statistic for his
experiments.

Subject
Wainger's central nervous system had been severely damaged. Subject suffered
minor cardiac infarction during abduction and torture period. Anus and interior
of mouth showed electrical bums. Both hands crushed with a smooth, heavy
instrument. Three ribs cracked.

The list of
injuries went on until Morse had confirmed the cause of death as strangulation.
And the time of death as midnight, December twenty-fourth.

She spent an
hour at Carl Neissan's, another at Wainger's. In both cases, she thought, the
door had been opened, Palmer allowed in. He was good at that. Good at putting
on a pretty smile and talking his way in.

He looked so
damn innocent, Eve thought as she climbed the steps to her own front door. Even
the eyes -- and the eyes usually told you -- were those of a young, harmless
man. They hadn't flickered, hadn't glazed or brightened, even when he'd sat in
interview across from her and described each and every murder.

They'd taken
on the light of madness only when he talked about the scope and importance of
his work.

“Lieutenant.”
Summerset, tall and bony in severe black, slipped out of a doorway. “Do I
assume your guests will be remaining for lunch?”

“Guests? I
don't have any guests.” She stripped off her jacket, tossed it across the newel
post. “If you mean my team, we'll deal with it.”

He had the
jacket off the post even as she started up the stairs. At his low growl of
disgust she glanced back. He held in his fingertips the gloves she'd balled
into her jacket pocket. “What have you done to these?”

“It's just
sealant.” Which she'd forgotten to clean off before she shoved them into her
pocket.

“These are
handmade, Italian leather with mink lining.”

“Mink? Shit.
What is he, crazy?” Shaking her head, she kept on going. “Mink lining, for
Christ's sake. I'll have lost them by next week, then some stupid mink will
have died for nothing.” She glanced down the hallway at Roarke's office door,
shook her head again, and walked into her own.

She was right,
Eve noted. Her team could deal with lunch on their own. Feeney was chowing down
on some kind of multi-tiered sandwich while he muttered orders into the computer
and scanned. Peabody had a deep bowl of pasta, scooping it up one-handed,
sliding printouts into a pile with the other.

Her office
smelled like an upscale diner and sounded like cops. Computer and human voices
clashed, the printer hummed, and the main 'link was beeping and being ignored.

She strode
over and answered it herself. “Dallas.”

“Hey, got your
rope.” When she saw Dickie shove a pickle in his mouth, she wondered if every
city official's stomach had gone on alarm at the same time. “Nylon strapping
cord, like I said. This particular type is top grade, heavy load. Manufactured
by Kytell outta Jersey. You guys run the distributor, that's your end.”

“Yeah.
Thanks.” She broke transmission, thinking Dickie wasn't always a complete
dickhead. He'd come through and hadn't required a bribe.

“Lieutenant,”
Peabody began, but Eve held up a finger and walked to Roarke's door and through
it. “Do you own Kytell in New Jersey?”

Then she
stopped and winced when she saw that he was in the middle of a holographic conference.
Several images turned, studied her out of politely annoyed eyes.

“Sorry.”

“It's all
right. Gentlemen, ladies, this is my wife.” Roarke leaned back in his chair,
monumentally amused that Eve had inadvertently made good on her threat to barge
in on one of his multi-million-dollar deals just to annoy him. “If you'd excuse
me one moment. Caro?”

The holo of
his administrative assistant rose, smiled. “Of course. We'll shift to the
boardroom momentarily.” The image turned, ran her hands over controls that only
she could see, and the holos winked away.

“I should have
knocked or something.”

“It's not a
problem. They'll hold. I'm about to make them all very rich. Do I own what?”

“Did you have
to say 'my wife' just that way, like I'd just run up from the kitchen?”

“So much more
serene an image than telling them you'd just run in from the morgue. And it is
a rather conservative company I'm about to buy. Now, do I own what and why do
you want to know?”

“Kytell, based
in New Jersey. They make rope.”

“Do they?
Well, I have no idea. Just a minute.” He swiveled at the console, asked for the
information on the company. Which, Eve thought with some irritation, she could
have damn well done herself.

“Yes, they're
an arm of Yancy, which is part of Roarke Industries. And which, I assume, made
the murder weapon.”

“Right the
first time.”

“Then you'll
want the distributor, the stores in the New York area where large quantities
were sold to one buyer within the last week.”

“Peabody can
get it.”

“I'll get it
faster. Give me thirty minutes to finish up in here, then I'll shoot the data
through to your unit.”

“Thanks.” She
started out, turned back. “The third woman on the right? The redhead? She was
giving you a leg shot -- another inch of skirt lift and it would have been past
her crotch.”

“I noticed.
Very nice legs.” He smiled. “But she still won't get more than eighty point
three a share. Anything else?”

“She's no
natural redhead,” Eve said for the hell of it and heard him laugh as she shut
the door between them.

“Sir.” Peabody
got to her feet. “I think I have a line on the vehicle. Three possibles,
high-end privates sold to single men in their early to mid-twenties on December
twentieth and twenty-first. Two dealerships on the East Side and one in
Brooklyn.”

“Print hard
copies of Palmer's photo.”

“Already
done.”

“Feeney?”

“Whittling it
down.”

“Keep
whittling. Roarke should have some data on the murder weapon inside a half
hour. Send what he has to me in the field, will you? Peabody, you're with me.”

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

The first
dealership was a wash, and as she pulled up at the second, Eve sincerely hoped
she didn't have to head to Brooklyn. The shiny new vehicles on the showroom
floor had Peabody's eyes gleaming avariciously. Only Eve's quick elbow jab kept
her from stroking the hood of a Booster-67, the sport-utility vehicle of the
year.

“Maintain some
dignity,” Eve muttered. She flagged a salesman, who looked none too happy when
she flipped out her badge. “I need to talk to the rep who sold a rig like this”
-- she gestured toward the Booster -- “last week. Young guy bought it.”

“Lana sold one
of the 6Zs a few days before Christmas.” Now he looked even unhappier. “She
often rounds up the younger men.” He pointed to a woman at a desk on the far
side of the showroom.

“Thanks.” Eve
walked over, noting that Lana had an explosion of glossy black curls cascading
down her back, a headset over it, and was fast-talking a potential customer on
the line while she manually operated a keyboard with fingernails painted a
vivid red.

“I can put you
in it for eight a month. Eight a month and you're behind the wheel of the
sexiest, most powerful land and air unit currently produced. I'm slicing my
commission to the bone because I want to see you drive off in what makes you
happy.”

“Make him
happy later, Lana.” Eve held her badge in front of Lana's face.

Lana put a
hand over the mouthpiece, studied the ID, cursed softly. Then her voice went
back to melt. “Jerry, you take one more look at the video, try out the holo
run. If you're not smiling by the end of it, the 7000's not the one for you.
You call me back and let me know. Remember, I want you happy. Hear?”

She
disconnected, glared at Eve. “I paid those damn parking violations. Every one.”

“Glad to hear
it. Our city needs your support. I need information on a sale you made last
week. Booster. You were contacted earlier today and confirmed.”

“Yeah, right.
Nice guy, pretty face.” She smiled. “He knew what he wanted right off.”

“Is this the
guy?” Eve signaled to Peabody, who took out the photo.

“Yeah. Cute.”

“Yeah, he's
real cute. I need the data. Name, address, the works.”

“Sure, no
problem.” She turned to her machine, asked for the readout. Then, looking back
up at Eve, she narrowed her eyes. “You look familiar. Have I sold you a car?”

Eve thought of
her departmental issue, its sad pea-green finish and blocky style. “No.”

“You really
look -- Oh!” Lana lit up like a Christmas tree. “Sure, sure, you're Roarke's
wife. Roarke's cop wife. I've seen you on screen. Word is he's got an extensive
collection of vehicles. Where does he deal?”

“Wherever he
wants,” Eve said shortly, and Lana let out a gay laugh.

“Oh, I'm sure
he does. I'd absolutely love to show him our brand-new Barbarian. It won't be
on the market for another three months, but I can arrange a private showing. If
you'd just give him my card, Mrs. Roarke, I'll be -- “

“You see
this?” Eve took out her badge again, all but pushed it into Lana's pert nose.
“It says 'Dallas.' Lieutenant Dallas. I'm not here to liaison your next
commission. This is an official investigation. Give me the damn data.”

“Certainly. Of
course.” If her feathers were ruffled, Lana hid it well. “Um, the name is Peter
Nolan, 123 East Sixty-eighth, apartment 4-B.”

“How'd he pay?”

“That I
remember. Straight E-transfer. The whole shot. Didn't want to finance. The
transfer was ordered, received, and confirmed, and he drove off a happy man.”

“I need all
the vehicle information, including temp license and registration number. Full description.”

“All right.
Gee, what'd he do? Kill somebody?”

“Yeah, he
did.”

“Wow.” Lana
busily copied the data disc. “You just can't trust a pretty face,” she said and
slipped her business card into the disc pack.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Peter Nolan
didn't live at the Sixty-eighth Street address. The Kowaskis, an elderly
couple, and their creaky schnauzer had lived there for fifteen years.

A check of the
bank showed that the Nolan account had been opened, in person, on December 20
of that year and closed on December 22.

Just long
enough to do the deal, Eve thought. But where had he gotten the money?

Taking
Roarke's advice, she rounded out a very long day by starting searches on
accounts under the name of Palmer. It would, she thought, rubbing her eyes,
take a big slice of time.

How much time
did Carl have? she wondered. Another day, by her guess. If Palmer was running
true to form, he would begin to enjoy his work too much to rush through it. But
sometime within the next twenty-four hours, she believed he'd try for Justine
Polinsky.

While her
machine worked, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Nearly midnight, she
thought. Another day. Feeney was working his end. She was confident they'd have
a line on the equipment soon, then there were the houses to check. They had the
make, model, and license of his vehicle.

He'd left a
trail, she thought. He wanted her to follow it, wanted her close. The son of a
bitch.

It's you and
me, isn't it, Dave? she thought as her mind started to drift. How fast can I
be, and how clever? You figure it'll make it all the sweeter when you've got me
in that cage. It's because you want that so bad that you're making mistakes.
Little mistakes.

I'm going to
hang you with them.

She slid into
sleep while her computer hummed and woke only when she felt herself being
lifted.

“What?”
Reflexively she reached for the weapon she'd already unharnessed.

“You need to
be in bed.” Roarke held her close as he left the office.

“I was just
resting my eyes. I've got data coming in. Don't carry me.”

“You were dead
out, the data will be there in the morning, and I'm already carrying you.”

“I'm getting
closer, but not close enough.”

He'd seen the
financial data on her screen. “I'll take a look through the accounts in the
morning,” he told her as he laid her on the bed.

“I've got it
covered.”

He unpinned
her badge, set it aside. “Yes, Sheriff, but money is my business. Close it down
a while.”

“He'll be
sleeping now.” She let Roarke undress her. “In a big, soft bed with clean
sheets. Dave likes to be clean and comfortable. He'll have a monitor in the
bedroom so he can watch Neissan. He likes to watch before he goes to sleep. He
told me.”

“Don't think.”
Roarke slipped into bed beside her, gathered her close.

“He wants me.”

“Yes, I know.”
Roarke pressed his lips to her hair as much to comfort himself as her. “But he
can't have you.”

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

Sleep helped.
She'd dropped into it like a stone and had lain on the bottom of the dreaming
pool for six hours. There'd been no call in the middle of the night to tell her
Carl Neissan's body had been found.

Another day,
she thought again and strode into her office. Roarke was at her desk, busily
screening data.

“What are you
doing?” She all but leapt to him. “That's classified.”

“Don't pick
nits, darling. You were going too broad last night. You'll be days compiling
and rejecting all accounts under the name Palmer. You want one that shows
considerable activity, large transfers, and connections to other accounts -- which
is, of course, the trickier part if you're dealing with someone who understands
how to hide the coin.”

“You can't
just sit down and start going through data accumulated in an investigation.”

“Of course I
can. You need coffee.” He looked up briefly. “Then you'll feel more yourself
and I'll show you what I have.”

“I feel
exactly like myself.” Which, she admitted, at the moment was annoyed and edgy.
She stalked to the AutoChef in the kitchen, went for an oversized mug of hot
and black. The rich and real caffeine Roarke could command zipped straight
through her system.

“What have you
got?” she demanded when she walked back in.

“Palmer was
too simple, too obvious,” Roarke began, and she narrowed her eyes.

“You didn't
think so yesterday.”

“I said check
for relatives, same names. I should have suggested you try his mother's maiden
name. Riley. And here we have the account of one Palmer Riley. It was opened
six years ago, standard brokerage account, managed. Since there's been some
activity over the last six months, I would assume your man found a way to
access a 'link or computer from prison.”

“He shouldn't
have been near one. How can you be sure?”

“He
understands how money works, and just how fluid it can be. You see here that
six months ago he had a balance of just over $1.3 million. For the past three
years previous, all action was automatic, straight managed with no input from
the account holder. But here he begins to make transfers. Here's one to an
account under Peter Nolan, which, by the way, is his aunt's husband's name on
his father's side. Overseas accounts, off-planet accounts, local New York
accounts -- different names, different IDs. He's had this money for some time
and he waited, sat on it until he found the way to use it.”

“When I took
him down before, we froze his accounts, accounts under David Palmer. We didn't
look deeper. I didn't think of it.”

“Why should
you have? You stopped him, you put him away. He was meant to stay away.”

“If I'd
cleared it all, he wouldn't have had the backing to come back here.”

“Eve, he'd
have found a way.” He waited until she looked at him. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” She
let out a long breath. “Yeah, I know that. This tells me he's been planning,
he's been shopping, he's been juggling funds, funneling into cover accounts. I
need to freeze them. I don't think a judge is going to argue with me, not after
what happened to one of their own.”

“You'll piss
him off.”

“That's the
plan. I need the names, numbers, locations of all the accounts you can connect
to him.” She blew out a breath. “Then I guess I owe you.”

“Use your
present, and we'll call it even.”

“My present?
Oh, yeah. Where and/or when do I want to go for a day. Let me mull that over a
little bit. We get this wrapped, I'll use it for New Year's Eve.”

“There's a
deal.”

A horrible
thought snuck into her busy mind. “We don't have like a thing for New Year's,
do we? No party or anything.”

“No. I didn't
want anything but you.”

She looked
back at him, narrowing her eyes even as the smile spread. “Do you practice
saying stuff like that?”

“No.” He rose,
framed her face and kissed her, hard and deep. “I have all that stuff on disc.”

“You're a
slick guy, Roarke.” She skimmed her fingers through her hair and simply lost
herself for a moment in the look of him. Then, giving herself a shake, she
stepped back. “I have to work.”

“Wait.” He
grabbed her hand before she could turn away. “What was that?”

“I don't know.
It just comes over me sometimes. You, I guess, come over me sometimes. I don't
have time for it now.”

“Darling Eve.”
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “Be sure to make time later.”

“Yeah, I'll do
that.”

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

They worked
together for an hour before Peabody arrived. She switched gears, leaving Roarke
to do what he did best -- manipulate data -- while she focused on private
residences purchased in the New York area, widening the timing to the six
months since Palmer had activated his account.

Feeney called
in to let her know he'd identified some of the equipment from the recording and
was following up.

Eve gathered
her printouts and rose. “We've got more than thirty houses to check. Have to do
it door-to-door since I don't trust the names and data. He could have used
anything. Peabody -- “

“I'm with you,
sir.”

“Right.
Roarke, I'll be in the field.”

“I'll let you
know when I have this wrapped.”

She looked at
him, working smoothly, thoroughly, methodically. And wondered who the hell was
dealing with what she often thought of as his empire. “Look, I can call a man
in for this. McNab -- “

“McNab.”
Peabody winced at the name before she could stop herself. She had a temporary
truce going with the EDD detective, but that didn't mean she wanted to share
her case with him. Again. “Dallas, come on. It's been so nice and quiet around
here.”

“I've got
this.” Roarke shot her a glance, winked at Peabody. “I have an investment in it
now.”

“Whatever.
Shoot me, and Feeney, the data when you have it all. I'm going to check out the
rope, too. He likely picked up everything himself, but it would only take one
delivery to pin down his hole.”

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

After three
hours of knocking on doors, questioning professional parents, housekeepers, or
others who chose the work-at-home route, Eve took pity on Peabody and swung by
a glide cart.

In this
neighborhood the carts were clean, the awnings or umbrellas bright, the
operators polite. And the prices obscene.

Peabody winced
as she was forced to use a credit card for nothing but coffee, a kabob, and a
small scoop of paper-thin oil chips.

“It's my
metabolism,” she muttered as she climbed back into the car. “I have one that
requires fuel at regular intervals.”

“Then pump
up,” Eve advised. “It's going to be a long day. At least half these people
aren't going to be home until after the five o'clock shift ends.”

She snagged
the 'link when it beeped. “Dallas.”

“Hello,
Lieutenant.” Roarke eyed her soberly. “Your data's coming through.”

“Thanks. I'll
start on the warrant.”

“One thing --
I didn't find any account with a withdrawal or transfer that seemed large
enough for a purchase or down payment on a house. A couple are possible, but
if, as you told me, he didn't finance a car, it's likely he didn't want to deal
with the credit and CompuGuard checks on his rating and background.”

“He's got a
damn house, Roarke. I know it.”

“I'm sure
you're right. I'm not convinced he acquired it recently.”

“I've still
got twenty-couple to check,” she replied. “I have to follow through on that.
Maybe he's just renting. He likes to own, but maybe this time he's renting.
I'll run it through that way, too.”

“There weren't
any standard transfers or withdrawals that would indicate rent or mortgage
payments.”

She hissed out
a breath. “It's ridiculous.”

“What?”

“How good a
cop you'd make.”

“I don't think
insulting me is appropriate under the circumstances. I have some business of my
own to tend to,” he said when she grinned at him. “I'll get back to yours
shortly.”

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

Palmer had
purchased, and personally picked up, a hundred twenty yards of nylon rope from
a supply warehouse store off Canal. The clerk who had handled the sale ID'd the
photo and mentioned what a nice young man Mr. Dickson had been. As Dickson,
Palmer had also purchased a dozen heavy-load pulleys, a supply of steel O
rings, cable, and the complete Handy Homemaker set of Steelguard tools,
including the accessory laser package.

The entire
business had been loaded into the cargo area of his shiny new Booster-6Z --
which the clerk had admired -- on the morning of December 22.

Eve imagined
Palmer had been a busy little bee that day and throughout the next, setting up
his private chamber of horrors.

By eight
they'd eliminated all the houses on Eve's initial list.

“That's it.”
Eve climbed back in her vehicle and pressed her fingers to her eyes. “They all
check out. I'll drop you at a transpo stop, Peabody.”

“Are you going
home?”

Eve lowered
her hands. “Why?”

“Because I'm
not going off duty if you're starting on the list of rentals I ran.”

“Excuse me?”

Peabody firmed
her chin. Eve could arrow a cold chill up your spine when she took on that
superior-officer tone. “I'm not going off duty, sir, to leave you solo in the
field with Palmer on the loose and you as a target. With respect, Lieutenant.”

“You don't
think I can handle some little pissant, mentally defective?”

“I think you
want to handle him too much.” Peabody sucked in a breath. “I'm sticking,
Dallas.”

Eve narrowed
her eyes. “Have you been talking to Roarke?” At the quick flicker in Peabody's
eyes Eve swore. “Goddamn it.”

“He's right
and you're wrong. Sir.” Peabody braced for the explosion, was determined to
weather it, then all but goggled with shock.

“Maybe,” was
all Eve said as she pulled away from the curb.

Since she was
on a roll, Peabody slanted Eve a look. “You haven't eaten all day. You didn't
even steal any of my oil chips. You could use a meal.”

“Okay, okay.
Christ, Roarke's got your number, doesn't he?”

“I wish.”

“Zip it,
Peabody. We'll fuel the metabolism, then start on the rental units.”

“Zipping with
pleasure, sir.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

It began to
snow near midnight, fat, cold flakes with icy edges. Eve watched it through the
windshield and told herself it was time to stop. The night was over. Nothing
more could be done.

“He's got all
the cards,” she murmured.

“You've got a
pretty good hand, Dallas.” Peabody shifted in her seat, grateful for the heat
of the car. Even her bones were chilled.

“Doesn't
matter what I've got.” Eve drove away from the last rental unit they'd checked.
“Not tonight. I know who he is, who he's going to kill. I know how he does it
and I know why. And tonight it doesn't mean a damn thing. Odds are, he's done
with Carl now.”

It was rare to
see Eve discouraged. Angry, yes, Peabody thought with some concern. And driven.
But she couldn't recall ever hearing that quiet resignation in her lieutenant's
voice before. “You covered all the angles. You took all the steps.”

“That's not
going to mean much to Carl. And if I'd covered all the angles, I'd have the son
of a bitch. So I'm missing one. He's slipping through because I can't pin it.”

“You've only
had the case for three days.”

“No. I've had
it for three years.” As she pulled up at a light, her 'link beeped. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant,
this is Detective Dalrymple, assigned to observation on the Polinsky residence.
We've got a mixed-race male, mid-twenties, average height and build. Subject is
on foot and carrying a small sack. He used what appeared to be a key code to
gain access to premises. He's inside now.”

“I'm three
blocks east of your location and on my way.” She'd already whipped around the
corner. “Secure all exists, call for backup. Doesn't make sense,” she muttered
to Peabody as they barreled across Madison. “Right out in the open? Falls right
into our laps? Doesn't fucking make sense.”

She squealed
to a stop a half a block from the address. Her weapon was in her hand before
she hit the sidewalk. “Peabody, the Polinsky unit is on four, south side. Go
around, take the fire escape. He comes out that way, take him down quick.”

Eve charged in
at the front of the building and, too impatient for the elevator, raced up the
stairs. She found Dalrymple on four, weapon drawn as he waited beside the door.

“Lieutenant.”
He gave her a brief nod. “My partner's around the back. Subject's been inside
less than five minutes. Backup's on the way.”

“Good.” She
studied Dalrymple's face, found his eyes steady. “We won't wait for them. I go
in low,” she added, taking out her master and bypassing the locks.

“Fine with
me.” He was ready beside her.

“On three.
One, two.” They hit the door, went through high and low, back to back, sweeping
with their weapons. Music was playing, a primitive backbeat of drums behind
screaming guitars. In the tidy living area, the mood screen had been set on
deep reds and swimming blues melting into each other.

She signaled
Dalrymple to the left, had taken two steps to the right herself when a naked
man came out of the kitchen area carrying a bottle of wine and a single red
rose.

He screamed
and dropped the bottle. Wine glugged out onto the rug. Holding the rose to his
balls, he crouched. “Don't shoot! Jesus, don't shoot. Take anything you want.
Anything. It's not even mine.”

“NYPSD,” Eve
snapped at him. “On the floor, facedown, hands behind your head. Now!”

“Yes, ma'am,
yes, ma'am.” He all but dove to the rug. “I didn't do anything.” He flinched
when Eve dragged his hands down and cuffed them. “I was just going to meet
Sunny. She said it would be okay.”

“Who the hell
are you?”

“Jimmy. Jimmy
Ripsky. I go to college with Sunny. We're on winter break. She said her parents
were out of town for a few days and we could use the place.”

Eve holstered
her weapon in disgust. The boy was shaking like a leaf. “Get him a blanket or
something, Dalrymple. This isn't our man.” She dragged him to his feet and had
enough pity in her to uncuff him before gesturing to a chair. “Let's here the
whole story, Jimmy.”

“That's it.
Um” -- cringing with embarrassment, he folded his arms over his crotch --
“Sunny and I are, like, an item.”

“And who's
Sunny?”

“Sunny Polinsky.
Sheila, I guess. Everybody calls her Sunny. This is her parents' place. Man,
her father's going to kill me if he finds out.”

“She called
you?”

“Yeah. Well,
no.” He looked up with desperate gratitude when Dalrymple came in with a
chenille throw. “I got an E-mail from her this morning and a package. She said
her parents were going south for the week and how I should come over tonight.
About midnight, let myself in with the key she'd sent me. And I should, um, you
know, get comfortable.” He tucked the throw more securely around his legs. “She
said she'd be here by twelve-thirty and I should, well, ah, be waiting in bed.”
He moistened his lips. “It was pretty, sort of, explicit for Sunny.”

“Do you still
have the E-mail? The package the key came in?”

“I dumped the
package in the recycler, but I've got the E-mail. I printed it out. It's...
it's a keeper, you know?”

“Right.
Detective, call in your partner and my aide.”

“Um, ma'am?”
Jimmy began when Dalrymple turned away with his communicator.

“Dallas.
Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma'am,
Lieutenant. What's going on? Is Sunny okay?”

“She's fine.
She's with her parents.”

“But -- she
said she'd be here.”

“I think
someone else sent you that keeper E-mail. Somebody who wanted me to have a
little something extra to do tonight.” But she sat, pulled out her palm-link.
“I'm going to check out your story, Jimmy. If it all fits, Detective
Dalrymple's going to arrange for a uniform to take you home. You can give him
the printout of the E-mail -- and your computer.”

“My computer?
But -- “

“It's police
business,” she said shortly. “You'll get it back.”

“Well, that
was fun,” Peabody said when Eve re-secured the door.

“A barrel of
laughs.”

“Poor kid. He
was mortified. Here he was thinking he was going to have the sex of his dreams
with his girl, and he gets busted.”

“The fact that
a rosebud managed to preserve most of his modesty tells me that the sex of his
dreams outruns the reality.” At Peabody's snort, Eve turned to the elevator.
“Sunny backed up his story about them being an item. Not that I doubted it. The
kid was too scared to lie. So... Dave's been keeping up with the social
activities of his marks. He knows the family, the friends, and he knows how to
use them.”

She stepped
out of the elevator, crossed the lobby. “For an MD in a maximum lockup, he
managed to get his hands on plenty of data.”

She paused at
the door and simply stood for a moment looking out at the thin, steady snow.
“You got off-planet clearance, Peabody?”

“Sure. It's a
job requirement.”

“Right. Well,
go home and pack a bag. I want you on your way to Rexal on the first transport
we can arrange. You and McNab can check out the facilities, find the unit
Palmer had access to.”

The initial
rush from the idea of an off-planet assignment turned to ashes in her mouth.
“McNab? I don't need McNab.”

“When you find
the unit, you'll need a good electronics man.” Eve opened the door, and the
blast of cold cooled the annoyed flush on Peabody's cheeks.

“He's a pain
in the ass.”

“Sure he is,
but he knows his job. If Feeney can spare him, you're the off-planet team.” She
reached for her communicator, intending to interrupt Feeney's sleep and get the
ball rolling. A scream from the end of the block had her drawing her weapon
instead.

She pounded
west, boots digging into the slick sidewalk. With one quick gesture, she
signaled Dalrymple to stay at his post in the surveillance van.

She saw the
woman first, wrapped in sleek black fur, clinging to a man with an overcoat
over a tux. He was trying to shield her face and muffle her mouth against his
shoulder. The pitch and volume of her screams indicated he wasn't doing a very
good job of it.

“Police!” He
shouted it as he saw Peabody and Eve running toward them. “Here's the police,
honey. My God, my God, what's this city coming to? He threw it out, threw it
out right at our feet.”

It, Eve saw,
was Carl Neissan. His naked and broken body lay face up against the curb. His
head had been shaved, she noted, and the tender skin abraded and burned. His
knees were shattered, his protruding tongue blackened. Around his neck, digging
deep, was the signature noose. And the message carved into his chest was still
red and raw.

WOE UNTO
YOU ALSO, YE LAWYERS!

The woman's
screaming had turned to wailing now. Eve tuned it out. With her eyes on the
body, she pulled out her communicator. “This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I have
a homicide.”

She gave
Dispatch the necessary information, then turned to the male witness. “You live
around here?”

“Yes, yes,
this building on the corner. We were just coming home from a party when -- “

“My aide is
going to take your companion inside, away from this. Out of the cold. We'll
need her statement. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out here with me for a few
minutes.”

“Yes, of
course. Yes. Honey.” He tried to pry his wife's hands from around his neck.
“Honey, you go with the policewoman. Go inside now.”

“Peabody,” Eve
said under her breath, “take honey out of here, get what you can out of her.”

“Yes, sir.
Ma'am, come with me.” With a couple of firm tugs Peabody had the woman.

“It was such a
shock,” he continued. “She's very delicate, my wife. It's such a shock.”

“Yes, sir, I'm
sure it is. Can I have your names, please?”

“What? Oh.
Fitzgerald. George and Maria.”

Eve got the
names and the address on record. In a few minutes she would have a crowd to
deal with, she knew. Even jaded New Yorkers would gather around a dead, naked
body on Madison Avenue.

“Can you --
sir, look at me,” she added when he continued to stare at the body. He was
going faintly green. “Look at me,” she repeated, “and try to tell me exactly
what happened.”

“It was all so
fast, so shocking.” Reaction began to set in, showing in the way his hand
trembled as he pressed it to his face. “We'd just come from the Andersons'.
They had a holiday party tonight. It's only a block over, so we walked. We'd
just crossed the street when there was a squeal of brakes. I barely paid
attention to it -- you know how it is.”

“Yes, sir.
What did you see?”

“I glanced
back, just out of reflex, I suppose. I saw a dark car -- black, I think. No,
no, not a car -- one of those utility vehicles. The sporty ones. It stopped
right here. Right here. You can still see the skid marks in the snow. And then
the door opened. He pushed -- he all but flung this poor man out, right at our
feet.”

“You saw the
driver?”

“Yes, yes,
quite clearly. This corner is very well lit. He was a young man, handsome.
Light hair. He smiled... he smiled at me just as the door opened. Why, I think
I smiled back. He had the kind of face that makes you smile. I'm sure I could
identify him. I'm sure of it.”

“Yeah.” Eve
let out a breath, watched the wind snatch it away as the first black-and-whites
arrived on the scene. You wanted to be seen, didn't you, Dave? she thought. And
you wanted me to be close, very close, when you gave me Carl.

“You can go
inside with your wife, Mr. Fitzgerald. I'll be in touch.”

“Yes, of
course. Thank you. I -- it's Christmas week,” he said with honest puzzlement in
his eyes. “You live in the city, you know terrible things can and do happen.
But it's Christmas week.”

“Joy to the
world,” Eve murmured as he walked away. She turned around and ordered the
uniforms to secure the scene and prepare for the crime-scene team. Then she
crouched beside Carl and got to work.

CHAPTER NINE

Eve spent most
of the next thirty hours backtracking, searching for the step she was sure she
had missed. With Peabody off-planet, she did the work herself, rerunning
searches and scans, compiling data, studying reports.

She did
personal drop-bys at both the safe house where Justine and her family were
being kept and Mira's home. She ran checks on their security bracelets to
confirm that they were in perfect working order.

He couldn't
get to them, she assured herself as she paced her office. With them out of
reach, he would have no choice but to come for her.

Jesus, she
wanted him to come for her.

It was a
mistake, she knew it was a mistake, to make it a personal battle. But she could
see his face too clearly, hear his soft prep-school voice so perfectly.

But you
see, Lieutenant Dallas, the work you do is nothing more than a stopgap. You
don't change anything. However many criminals you lock up today, there'll be
that many and more tomorrow. What I'm doing changes everything. The answers to
questions every human being asks. How much is too much, how much will the mind
accept, tolerate, bear, if you will, before it shuts down? And before it does,
what thoughts, what impulses go through the mind as the body dies?

Death,
Lieutenant, is the focus of your work and of mine. And while we both enjoy the
brutality that goes with it, in the end I'll have my answers. You'll only have
more questions.

She only had
one question now, Eve thought. Where are you, Dave?

She turned
back to her computer. “Engage, open file Palmer, H3492-G. Cross-reference all
files and data pertaining to David Palmer. Run probability scan. What is the
probability that Palmer, David, is now residing in New York City?”

Working....
Using current data the probability is ninety-seven point six that subject
Palmer now resides in New York City.

“What is the
probability that subject Palmer resides in a private home?”

Working....
probability ninety-five point eight that subject Palmer is residing in a
private home at this time.

“Given the
status of the three remaining targets of subject Palmer, which individual will
he attempt to abduct next?”

Working....
strongest probability is for target Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Attempts on targets
Polinsky and Mira are illogical given current status.

“That's what
you're hoping for.”

She turned her
head. Roarke stood in the doorway between their offices, watching her. “That's
what I'm counting on.”

“Why aren't
you wearing a tracer bracelet?”

“They don't
have one that goes with my outfit.” She straightened, turned to face him. “I
know what I'm doing.”

“Do you?” He
crossed to her. “Or are you too close to this one? He's gotten to you, Eve.
He's upset your sense of balance. It's become almost intimate between you.”

“It's always
intimate.”

“Maybe.” He
brushed a thumb just above her left cheekbone. Her eyes were shadowed, her face
pale. She was, he knew, running on nerves and determination now. He'd seen it
before. “In any case, you've interrupted his work. He has no one now.”

“He won't wait
long. I don't need the computer analysis to tell me that. We've got less than
forty hours left in the year. I don't want to start the new one knowing he's
out there. He won't want to start it without me.”

“Neither do
I.”

“You won't
have to.” Because she sensed he needed it, she leaned into him, closed her
mouth over his. “We've got a date.”

“I'll hold you
to it.”

When she
started to ease back, he slid his arms around her, brought her close. “I'm not
quite done here,” he murmured, and sent her blood swimming with a hard and
hungry kiss.

For a moment
that was all there was. The taste of him, the feel of him pressed against her,
the need they created in each other time after time erupting inside her.

Giving herself
to it, and to him, was as natural as breathing.

“Roarke,
remember how on Christmas Eve we got naked and crazy?”

“Mmm.” He
moved his mouth to her ear, felt her tremble. “I believe I recall something of
that.”

“Well, prepare
yourself for a review on New Year's Eve.” She drew his head back, framing his
face as she smiled at him. “I've decided it's one of our holiday traditions.”

“I feel very
warmly toward tradition.”

“Yeah, and if
I feel much warmer right now, I'm not going to get my job done, so...”

She jumped away
from him when her 'link beeped and all but pounced on it. “Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.”
Peabody's face swam on, swam off again, then came shakily back.

“Peabody,
either your transmission's poor or you've grown a second nose.”

“The equipment
here's worse than what we deal with at Central.” The audio came through with a
snake hiss of static. “And I don't even want to talk about the food. When
you're planning your next holiday vacation, steer clear of Rexal.”

“And it was
top of my list. What have you got for me?”

“I think we
just caught a break. We've tracked down at least one unit Palmer had access to.
It's in the chapel. He convinced the padre he'd found God and wanted to read
Scripture and write an inspirational book on salvation.”

“Glory
hallelujah. Can McNab access his files?”

“He says he
can. Shut up, McNab.” Peabody turned her head. The fact that her face became a
vivid orange could have been temper or space interference. “I'm giving this
report. And I'm reporting, sir, that Detective McNab is still one big butt
ache.”

“So noted.
What does he have so far?”

“He found the
files on the book Palmer used to hose the preacher. And he claims he's
working down the levels. Hey!”

The buzzing
increased and the screen blurred with color, lines, figures. Eve pressed her
fingers to her eyes and prayed for patience.

McNab's
cheerful, attractive face came on. Eve noted that he wore six tiny silver hoops
in one ear. So he hadn't decided to tone down his look for a visit to a
rehabilitation center.

“Dallas. This
guy knows his electronics, so he took basic precautions with his personal data,
but -- take a hike, She-Body, this is my area. Anyway, Lieutenant, I'm scraping
off the excess now. He's got stuff tucked under his praise-the-Lord hype. It
won't take me long to start picking it out. The trouble, other than your aide's
constant griping, is transmitting to you. We've got crap equipment here and a
meteor storm or some such happy shit happening. It's going to cause some
problems.”

“Can you work
on the unit on a transport?”

“Ah... sure.
Why not?”

“Confiscate
the unit, catch the first transpo back. Report en route.”

“Wow, that's
iced. Confiscate. You hear that, She-Body? We're confiscating this little
bastard.”

“Get started,”
Eve ordered. “If they give you any grief, have the warden contact me. Dallas
out.”

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

Eve drove into
Cop Central, making three unnecessary stops on the way. If Palmer was going to
make a move on her, he'd do it on the street. He'd know he would never be able
to break through the defenses of Roarke's fortress. But she spotted no tail, no
shadow.

More, she
didn't feel him.

Would he go
for her in the station? she wondered as she took the glide up to the EDD sector
to consult with Feeney. He'd used a cop's disguise to get to Carl. He could put
it to use again, slip into the warrenlike building, blend with the uniforms.

It would be a
risk, but a risk like that would increase the excitement, the satisfaction.

She studied
faces as she went. Up glides, through breeze-ways, down corridors, past cubes
and offices.

Once she'd
updated Feeney and arranged for him to consult with McNab on the unit en route,
she elbowed her way onto a packed elevator to make the trip to Commander
Whitney's office.

She spent the
morning moving through the building, inviting a confrontation, then she took to
the streets for the afternoon.

She
re-canvased the houses she and Peabody had already hit. Left herself in the
open. She bought bad coffee from a glide cart, loitered in the cold and the
smoke of grilling soydogs.

What the hell
was he waiting for? she thought in disgust, tossing the coffee cup into a
recycling bin. The sound of a revving engine had her glancing over her
shoulder. And she looked directly into Palmer's eyes.

He sat in his
vehicle, grinned at her, blew her an exaggerated kiss. Even as she leaped
forward, he hit vertical lift, shot up and streaked south.

She jumped
into her car, going air as she squealed away from the curb. “Dispatch, Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve. All units, all units in the vicinity of Park and Eighty
respond. I'm in ground-to-air chase with murder suspect. Vehicle is a black
new-issue Booster-6Z, New York license number Delta Able Zero-4821, temporary.
Heading south on Park.”

“Dispatch,
Dallas. Received and confirmed. Units dispatched. Is subject vehicle in visual
range?”

“No. Subject
vehicle went air at Park and Eighty, headed south at high speed. Subject should
be considered armed and dangerous.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Where'd you
go, where'd you go, you little son of a bitch?” Eve rapped the wheel with her
fist as she zipped down Park, shot down cross streets, circled back. “Too
fast,” she muttered. “You went under too fast. Your hole's got to be close.”

She set down,
did her best to bank her temper, to use her head and not her emotions. She'd
let the search run another thirty minutes, though she'd already decided it was
useless. He'd had the vehicle tucked away in a garage or lot minutes after
she'd spotted him. After he'd made certain she'd spotted him.

That meant
canvases of every parking facility in three sectors. Public and private. And
with the budget, it would take days. The department wouldn't spare the manpower
necessary to handle the job any quicker.

She stayed
parked where she was, on the off chance that Palmer would try another taunt.
After aborting the search, she did slow sweeps through the sectors herself,
working off frustration before she drove home through the dark and the snarling
traffic.

She didn't
bother to snipe at Summerset, though he gave her ample opportunity. Instead,
scooping up the cat, which circled her legs, she climbed the stairs. Her intent
was to take a blistering-hot shower, drink a gallon of coffee, and go back to
work.

Her reality
was to fall facedown on the bed. Galahad climbed onto her butt, kneaded his way
to comfort, curled up, and went on guard with his eyes slitted on the door.

That's how
Roarke found them an hour later.

“I'll take
over from here,” he murmured, giving the cat a quick scratch between the ears.
But when he started to drape a blanket over his wife, Eve stirred.

“I'm awake.
I'm just -- “

“Resting your
eyes. Yes, I know.” To keep her prone, Roarke stretched out beside her, stroked
the hair away from her cheek. “Rest them a bit longer.”

“I saw him
today. The son of a bitch was ten feet away, and I lost him.” She closed her
eyes again. “He wants to piss me off so I stop thinking. Maybe I did, but I'm
thinking now.”

“And what are
you thinking, Lieutenant?”

“That I've
been counting too much on the fact that I know him, that I've been inside his
head. I've been tracking him without factoring in one vital element.”

“Which is?”

She opened her
eyes again. “He's fucking crazy.” She rolled over, stared at the sky window and
the dark beyond it. “You can't predict insanity. Whatever the head shrinkers
call it, it comes down to crazy. There's no physical, no psychological reason
for it. It just is. He just is. I've been trying to predict the unpredictable.
So I keep missing. It's not his work this time. It's payback. The other names
on the list are incidental. It's me. He needed them to get to me.”

“You'd already
concluded that.”

“Yeah, but
what I didn't conclude, and what I'm concluding now, is he's willing to die, as
long as he takes me out. He doesn't intend to go back to prison. I saw his eyes
today. They were already dead.”

“Which only
makes him more dangerous.”

“He has to
find a way to get to me, so he'll take risks. But he won't risk going down
before he's finished with me. He needs bait. Good bait. He must know about
you.”

She sat up
now, raking her hair back. “I want you to wear a bracelet.”

He lifted a
brow. “I will if you will.”

A muscle in
her cheek jumped as she set her teeth. “I phrased that incorrectly. You're going
to wear a bracelet.”

“I believe
such things are voluntary unless the subject has committed a crime.” He sat up
himself, caught her chin in his hand. “He won't get to you through me. That I
can promise. But if you expect me to wear NYPSD accessories, you'll have to
wear a matching one. Since you won't, I don't believe this conversation has a
point.”

“Goddamn it,
Roarke. I can slap you into protective custody. I can order taps on all your
communications, have you shadowed -- “

“No,” he
interrupted, and infuriated her by kissing her lightly. “You can't. My lawyers
will tap-dance all over your warrants. Stop.” He tightened his grip on her chin
before she could curse him again. And this time there was no light kiss, no
flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You leave here every day to do a job that
puts you in constant physical jeopardy. I don't ask you to change that. It's
one of the reasons I fell in love with you. Who you are, what you do, why you
do it. I don't ask you to change,” he repeated. “Don't you ask me.”

“It's just a
precaution.”

“No, it's a
capitulation. If it was less, you'd be wearing one yourself.”

She opened her
mouth, shut it again, then shoved away and rose. “I hate when you're right. I
really hate it. I'm going to take a shower. And don't even think about joining
me and trying anything because I'm not too happy with you right now.”

He merely
reached out, snagged her hand, and yanked her back onto the bed. “I dare you to
say that again in five minutes,” he challenged and rolled on top of her.

She didn't say
anything in five minutes, could barely speak in thirty. And when she did
finally make it to the shower, her blood was still buzzing. She decided it was
wiser not to comment when he joined her there. It would only appeal to his
competitive streak.

She kept her
silence and stepped out of the shower and into the drying tube. It gave her a
very nice view. She let herself relax enough to enjoy it, watching the jets of
water pulse and pound over Roarke as the hot air swirled around her.

She was back in
the bedroom, just tugging on an ancient NYPSD sweatshirt and thinking about
coffee and a long evening of work when her palm-link rang. Vaguely irritated
with a call on her personal, she plucked it up from where she'd dumped it on
the bedside table.

“Dallas.”

“It was nice
to see you today. In person. Face-to-face.”

“Hello, Dave.”
With her free hand, she reached in her pocket, switched her communicator on,
and plugged in Feeney's code. “Nice vehicle.”

“Yes, I like
it very much. Fast, efficient, spacious. You're looking a bit tired,
Lieutenant. A bit pale. Overworked, as usual? Too bad you haven't been able to
enjoy the holidays.”

“They've had
their moments.”

“Mine have
been very rewarding.” His handsome face glowed with a smile. “It's so good to
be back at work. Though I did manage to keep my hand in while I was away. But
you and I -- I'm sure we'll agree -- know there's nothing like New York.
Nothing like being home and doing what we love best.”

“Too bad you
won't be able to stay long.”

“Oh, I intend
to be here long enough to see the celebration in Times Square tomorrow night.
To ring in the new year. In fact, I'm hoping we'll watch it together.”

“Sorry, Dave.
I have plans.” From the corner of her eye, she watched Roarke come out of the
bath. Watched him keep out of range, move directly to the bedroom computer, and
begin to work manually.

“I think
you'll change them. When you know who else I've invited to the party. I picked
her up just a little while ago. You should be getting a call shortly from the
guards you'd posted. The police haven't gotten any smarter since I've been
gone.” He let out a charming laugh. “I took a little video for you, Dallas.
Take a look. I'll be in touch later to tell you what you need to do to keep her
alive.”

The image
shifted. Eve's blood iced as she saw the woman in the cage. Unconscious, pale,
one slim hand dangling through the bars.

“Transmitted
from a public 'link,” Roarke said from behind her. “Grand Central.”

Dimly she
heard Feeney giving her the same information through her communicator. Units
were already on their way to the location.

He'd be gone.
Of course they knew he'd already be gone.

“He has Mira.”
It was all she could say. “He has Mira.”

CHAPTER TEN

Panic wanted
to win. It crawled in her belly, snaked up her throat. It made her hands shake
until she balled them into fists.

It wanted to
swallow her when she moved through Mira's house, when she found the broken
security bracelet on the floor of the office.

“He used laser
tools.” Her voice was steady and cool as she bagged the bracelet. “He
anticipated that she'd be wearing one and brought what was necessary to remove
it.”

“The MTs are
taking the guards in. The two from outside were just stunned. But one of the
inside team's in bad shape.” Feeney crouched down next to her. “Looks like
Palmer got in the back, bypassed the security system like a pro. He hit the one
guard in the kitchen, used a stunner to take him out quick and quiet. From the
looks of the living area, the second one gave him more trouble. They went a
round in there. Mira must have been up here. If she had the door closed and was
working, she wouldn't have heard anything. Room's fully soundproofed.”

“So he takes
out the security, four experienced cops, waltzes right in, dismantles her
bracelet, and waltzes out with her. We underestimated him, Feeney.” And for
that she would forever blame herself. “He's not what he was when I took him
down before. He's studied up, he's learned, he's gotten himself into condition.
He made good use of three years in a cage.”

“She knows how
his mind works.” Feeney laid his hand on her shoulder. “Mira knows how to
handle this kind of guy. She'll use that. She'll keep her cool and use it.”

“No one knows
how his mind works this time around. Thinking I did was part of the problem all
along. I fucked up here, Feeney, and Mira's going to pay for it.”

“You're wrong.
The only fucking up you're doing is thinking that way now.”

“I thought he
might use Roarke as bait. Because if he's been studying me he knows that's
where he could hit me the hardest.” She made herself breathe slow as she got to
her feet. “But he knows me better than I figured. He knows she matters to me.”

“And he'll
count on that messing you up. You gonna let it?”

“No.” She
breathed in again, exhaled. “No. I need McNab to shake something loose. What's
their ETA?”

“Midday
tomorrow. They had some transpo delays. The transmissions are full of blips,
but I got that he's dug into some financials.”

“Shoot
whatever you've got to my home unit. I'll be working from there.”

“We'll want to
tap your palm-link.”

“Yeah, he'll
have figured that, but we'll do it anyway.” She met Feeney's eyes. “We take the
steps.”

“We'll get her
back, Dallas.”

“Yeah, we
will.” She turned the sealed bracelet over in her hand. “If he hurts her, I'm
taking him out.” She lifted her gaze again. “Whatever line I have to cross, I
take him out.”

When she
walked outside, Roarke was waiting. She hadn't argued when he'd come with her
and could only be grateful that he was there to drive home so her mind could be
free to think.

“Feeney's
going to be sending me data,” she began as she climbed into the car.
“Financials. You'll be able to extrapolate faster. The sweepers will go through
Mira's house, but he won't have left much, if anything. Anyway, it's not a
question of IDing him. Peabody and McNab won't be back until midday tomorrow,
so we'll be working with whatever they can send us while they're en route.”

“I took a look
at the alarms and security. It's a very good system. He used a sophisticated
bypass unit to take it out without triggering the auto. It's not something your
average citizen can access easily. I can help you trace the source.”

“Doesn't
matter at this point. Later we can deal with it. It's just another thread he
left dangling, figuring I'd waste time pulling it and getting nowhere.”

She rubbed at
the headache behind her eyes. “I've got uniforms canvasing. One of the
neighbors might have seen or heard something. It's useless, but it's routine
and we might get lucky.”

She closed her
eyes, forced herself to think past the fear. “She's got until tomorrow,
midnight. Dave wants some tradition and symbolism. He wants to welcome in the
new year with me, and he needs her to get me there.”

Her voice was
too cool, Roarke thought. Too controlled. He'd seen the hint of panic in her
eyes, and the grief. He let her hold in both as they arrived home, as she
walked directly up to her office and called up all necessary files.

She added
hard-copy data to the investigator's board she'd set up. And when she shifted
Mira's photo from one area to the other, her fingers shook.

“Eve.” He took
her shoulders, turned her around. “Let it out.”

“Can't. Don't
talk to me.”

“You can't
work around it.” He only tightened his grip when she tried to jerk away. “Let
it out. Let it out,” he said in a gentler tone. “I know what she means to you.”

“God.” She
wrapped her arms around him, curling her hands up over his shoulders as she
pressed her face into his neck. “Oh, God. Hold on. Just for a minute, hold on.”

Her body
shook, one hard wave of shudders after another. She didn't weep, but her breath
hitched as he held her close. “I can't think about what he might do to her. If
I think about it, I'll lose it.”

“Then remember
she's strong, and she's smart. She'll know what she has to do.”

“Yeah.” Her
'link signaled incoming data. “That'll be the financials.”

“I'll start on
them.” He eased her back. “He won't win this round.”

“Damn right.”

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

She worked
until her eyes and mind went blurry, then fueled up with coffee and worked some
more. At just after two a. m. Feeney shot her more data. It told her that he,
Peabody, and McNab were all still on the job.

“Basically,”
Roarke said, “this is just confirming what we already have. The accounts, the
transfers. You need to find more. You need to look from a different angle.” He
glanced up to see Eve all but swaying on her feet. “And you need to sleep.”

She would have
argued, but it would have wasted time. “We both do. Just a little while. We can
share the sleep chair. I want to stay close to this unit.”

The caffeine
in her system couldn't fight off exhaustion. Moments after closing her eyes,
she fell into sleep. Where nightmares chased her.

Images of Mira
trapped in a cage mixed and melded with memories of herself as a child, locked
in a room. Horror, pain, fear lived in both places. He would come -- Palmer,
her father -- he would come and he would hurt her because he could. Because he
enjoyed it. Because she couldn't stop him.

Until she
killed him.

But even then
he came back and did it all again in her dreams.

She moaned in
sleep, curled into Roarke.

It was the
smell of coffee and food that woke her. She sat up with a jerk, blinked blindly
in the dark, and found herself alone in the chair. She stumbled into the
kitchen and saw Roarke already taking food from the AutoChef.

“You need to
eat.”

“Yeah, okay.”
But she went for the coffee first. “I was thinking about what you said, looking
at a different angle.” She sat, because he nudged her into a chair, and
shoveled in food because it was in front of her. “What if he bought or rented
this place he's got before he got to New York? A year ago, two years ago?”

“It's
possible. I still haven't found any payments.”

“Has to be
there. Somewhere.” She heard the ring of her palm-link from the other room and
was on her feet. “Stay in here, do what you can to trace.”

Deliberately
she moved behind her desk, sat, composed her face. “Dallas.”

“Good morning,
Lieutenant. I hope you slept well.”

“Like a top,
Dave.” She curled a hand under the desk.

“Good. I want
you rested up for our date tonight. You've got, oh, let's see, just over
sixteen and a half hours to get here. I have every confidence in you.”

“You could tell
me where you are, we can start our date early.”

He laughed,
obviously delighted with her. “And spoil the fun? I don't think so. We're
puzzle solvers, Dallas. You find me by midnight and Dr. Mira will remain
perfectly safe. That's providing you come to see me alone. I'll know if you
bring uninvited guests, as I have full security. Any gate-crashers, and the
good doctor dies immediately and in great physical distress. I want to dance
with you, Dallas. Just you. Understood?”

“It's always
been you and me, Dave.”

“Exactly. Come
alone, by midnight, and we'll finish what we started three years ago.”

“I don't know
that she's still alive.”

He only
smiled. “You don't know that she's not.” And broke transmission.

“Another
public 'link,” Roarke told her. “Port Authority.”

“I need the
location. If I'm not there by midnight, he'll kill her.” She rose, paced. “He's
got a place, one with full security. He's not bullshitting there. He'll have
cameras, in and out. Sensors. He didn't have time to set all that up in a week,
so either the place came equipped with them or he ordered them from prison
courtesy of the chaplain.”

“We can access
tax records, blueprints, specs. It'll take time.”

“Time's
running out. Let's get started.”

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

At two she
received word that Peabody and McNab had landed, and she ordered them to bring
the unit to her home office. He was close, she thought again, and none of them
should waste time working downtown.

The minute
they walked in, she began outlining her plan of attack. “McNab, set up over there.
Start checking out any financials, transfers, transmissions, using the
chaplain's name. Or a combo of his and Palmer's. Peabody, contact Whitney,
request a canvas of all private garages in the suspect area. I want uniforms,
every warm body we can find, hitting the public parking facilities with orders
to confiscate and review all security tapes for the past week.”

“All,
Lieutenant?”

“Every last
one.”

She swung
around and into Roarke's office. Using his auxiliary unit, she called up data,
shot it to screen. “I've got the residences of Palmer's targets in blue,” she
told Roarke. “We run from mid to upper Manhattan, heaviest population on the
East Side. We need to concentrate on private homes in this ten-block radius.
Unless something jumps out at you, disregard anything that doesn't fit this
profile.”

She rolled her
shoulders to relieve the tension, closed her eyes to clear her mind. “It'll
have a basement. Probably two stories in addition to it. Fully soundproofed and
most likely with its own vehicle storage area. I've got them looking at public
storage, but I'm betting he has his own. He wants me to find him, goddamn it,
so it can't be that hard. He wants me to work for it but not to fail. It's just
personal for him, and without me...”

She trailed
off, whirled around. “He needs me. Jesus. Check my name. Check deeds,
mortgages, leases using my name.”

“There's your
new angle, Lieutenant,” Roarke murmured as he set to work. “Very good.”

“Toss it on
screen,” she asked even as she moved to stand behind him and watch. As her name
popped up with a list of liber and folio numbers she swore again. “How the hell
did he get all that property?”

“That's not
his, it's yours.”

“What do you
mean mine? I don't own anything.”

“Properties
I've transferred into your name.” Roarke spoke absently as he continued the
scan.

“Transferred?
What the hell for?”

He skimmed a
finger lightly over her wedding ring and earned a punch in the shoulder.
“You're welcome.”

“Take it back.
All of it.”

“It's
complicated. Taxes. Really, you're doing me a favor. No, there's nothing here
that isn't yours. We'll try a combination of names.”

She wanted,
badly, to seethe, but she didn't have time.

They found
three listings for the name David Dallas in Manhattan.

“Get the
property descriptions.”

“I'm working
on it. It takes a moment to hack into city hall.”

Barely more
than that for Roarke, Eve noted as the data flashed on screen. “No, that's
downtown. Sex club. Try the next.” She gripped the back of his chair, straining
with impatience. “That's just out of the target area, but possible. Hold that
and run the last. I'll be damned.” She almost whispered it. “He reverted to
type after all. That's his parents' house. He bought their place.”

“Two and a
half years ago,” Roarke confirmed. “Using the name David Dallas. Your man was
thinking ahead. Very far ahead. We'll find accounts in that name, or an account
that he had and closed.”

“Five blocks
from here. The son of a bitch is five blocks from here.” She leaned down,
kissed the top of Roarke's head, and strode back into her office. “I've found
it,” she announced, then looked at her wrist unit. “We've got seven hours to
figure out how to take him down.”

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

She would go
in alone. She insisted on it. She agreed to go in wired. Agreed to surveillance
and backup at half-block intervals surrounding the house. For luck she pinned
on the badge Peabody had given her, then waited with growing impatience as
Feeney checked the transmitter.

“You're on,”
he told her. “Nothing I found on the video disc had equipment that can tag this
pretty little bug. We've got a decoy so he'll think he's found one and
deactivated it.”

“Good
thinking.”

“You got to do
it this way.” He nodded at her. “I'd do the same. But you better understand I
hear anything I don't like, I'm coming in. Roarke.” He stepped back as Roarke
came into the room. “I'll give you a minute here.”

Roarke crossed
to her, tapped a finger on her badge. “Funny, you don't look like Gary Cooper.”

“Who?”

He smiled. “High
Noon, darling Eve, though the clock's turned around on this one. We have a
date in a couple of hours.”

“I remember.
I've got a present coming. I can do this.”

“Yes.” He
kissed her, softly. “I know. Give my best to Mira.”

“You bet. The
team's moving into place now. I have to go.”

“I'll see you
soon.”

He waited
until she was gone, then walked outside himself and climbed casually into
Feeney's unit. “I'll be riding with you.”

Feeney
scratched his chin. “Dallas won't like it.”

“That's a
pity. I spent the last few hours studying the schematics for the security on
the Palmer house. I can bypass it, by remote.”

“Can you,
now?” Feeney said mildly.

Roarke turned
his head, gave Feeney a level look. “I shouldn't need more than twenty minutes
clear to manage it.”

Feeney pursed
his lips and started down the drive. “I'll see what we can do about that.”

She went in at
ten. It was best, she'd decided, not to cut it too close to the deadline. The
old brownstone was lovely, in perfect repair. The security cameras and sensors
were discreetly worked into the trim so as not to detract from its dignity.

As she walked
to the door she was certain Palmer was watching. And that he was pleased. She
gave the overhead camera a brief glance, then bypassed the locks with her
master.

She closed the
door at her back, heard the locks snick automatically back into place. As they
did, the foyer lights flashed on.

“Good evening,
Dallas.” Palmer's voice flowed out of the intercom. “I'm so pleased you could
make it. I was just assuring Doctor Mira that you'd be here soon so we could
begin our end-of-year celebration. She's fine, by the way. Now, if you'd just
remove your weapon -- “

“No.” She said
it casually as she moved forward. “I'm not stripping down for you, Dave, so you
can take me out as I come down the stairs. Let's not insult each other.”

He laughed.
“Well, I suppose you're right. Keep it. Take it out. Engage it. It's fine. Just
remember, Doctor Mira's fate is in your hands. Come join us, Lieutenant. Let's
party.”

She'd been in
the house before, when she interviewed his parents. Even if the basic setup
hadn't come back to her, she'd taken time to study the blueprints. Still, she
didn't move too quickly, but scanned cautiously for booby traps on the way
through the house.

She turned at
the kitchen, opened the basement door. The sound of cheering blasted up at her.
The lights were on bright. She could see streamers, balloons, festive
decorations.

She took her
weapon out and started down.

He had
champagne chilling in a bucket, pretty canapes spread on silver trays on a
table draped with a colorful cloth.

And he had
Mira in a cage.

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” Mira said it calmly, though her mind was screaming. She'd been careful
to call Eve by her title, to keep their relationship professional, distant.

“Doctor.”
Palmer clucked his tongue. “I told you I'd do the talking. Lieutenant, you see
this control I'm holding. Just so we understand each other right away, if I
press this button, a very strong current will pass through the metal of the
doctor's temporary home. She'll be dead in seconds. Even with your weapon on
full, I'll have time to engage it. Actually, my nervous system will react in
such a way to the shock that my finger will twitch involuntarily, and the
doctor, shall we say, is toasted.”

“Okay, Dave,
but I intend to verify that Doctor Mira is unharmed. Are you hurt, Doctor?”

“No.” And
she'd managed so far to hold back hysteria. “He hasn't hurt me. And I don't
think he will. You won't hurt me, will you, David? You know I want to help you.
I understand how difficult all this has been for you, not having anyone who
appreciates what you've been working to achieve.”

“She's really
good, isn't she?” he said to Eve. “So soothing. Since I don't want to show her
any disrespect -- you'll note I didn't remove her clothing for our little
experiment -- maybe you should tell her to shut the fuck up. Would you mind,
Dallas?”

“Dave and I
need to handle this, Dr. Mira.” Eve moved closer. “Don't we, Dave? It's you and
me.”

“I've waited
for this for so long. You can see I've gone to quite a bit of trouble.” He
gestured with his free hand. “Maybe you'd like a drink, an hors d'oeuvre. We
have a celebration going on. The end of the old, the birth of the new. Oh, and
before I jam that wire you're wearing, tell the backup team that if anyone
attempts entry, you both die.”

“I'm sure they
heard you. And they already have orders to hold back. You said to come alone,”
she reminded him. “So I did. I always played it straight with you.”

“That's right.
We learned to trust each other.”

“Why stop now?
I've got a deal for you, Dave. A trade. Me for Mira. You let her out of there,
you let her go, and I'll get in. You'll have what you want.”

“Eve, don't --
“ Mira's composure started to slip.

“This is
between me and Dave.” She kept her eye on him, level and cool. “That's what you
want, isn't it? To put me in a cage, the way I put you in one. You've been
thinking about it for three years. You've been planning it, working for it,
arranging it step by step. And you did a damn good job this time around. Let
her go, Dave. She was just bait, you got me here by using her. Let her go and
I'll put down my weapon. I'll get in, and you'll have the kind of subject
you've always wanted.”

She took
another step toward him, watching his eyes now, watching them consider. Desire.
“She's a shrink, and she's not in the kind of condition I'm in -- mental or
physical. She sits at a desk and pokes into other people's minds. You start on
her, she'll go down fast, give you no satisfaction. Think how long I'll last.
Not just hours, days. Maybe weeks if you can hold the outside team off that
long. You know it's going to end here, for both of us.”

“Yes, I'm
prepared for that.”

“But this way,
you can get your payback and finish your work. Two for one. But you have to let
her out.”

Music crashed
out of the entertainment unit. On screen the revelers in Times Square swarmed
like feverish ants.

“Put down the
weapon now.”

“Tell me it's
a deal.” She held her breath, lifted her weapon, aimed it at the center of his
body. “Tell me it's a deal or I take you down. She goes, but I live. And you
lose all around. Take the deal, Dave. You'll never get a better one.”

“I'll take the
deal.” All but quivering with excitement, he rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Put
the weapon down. Put it down and move away from it.”

“Bring the
cage down first. Bring it down to the floor so I know you mean it.”

“I can still
kill her.” But he reached out to the console, touched a switch. The cage began
to sway and lower.

“I know it.
You've got the power here. I've just got a job. I'm sworn to protect her.
Unlock the cage.”

“Put the
weapon down!” He shouted it out now, raising his voice over the music and
cheers. “You said you'd put it down, now do it!”

“Okay. We've
got a deal.” Sweat slid down her back as she bent to lay the weapon on the
floor. “You don't kill for the hell of it. It's for science. Unlock the cage
and let her go.” Eve lifted her hands, palms out.

On a bright
laugh, he grabbed up a stunner, jabbed the air with it. “Just in case. You stay
where you are, Dallas.”

Her heart
began to beat again when he put the control down, hit the button to release the
locks. “Sorry you have to leave the party, Doctor Mira. But I promised this
dance to the lieutenant.”

“I need to
help her out.” Eve crouched to take Mira's hand. “Her muscles are stiff. She
wouldn't have lasted for you, Dave.” She gave Mira's hand one hard squeeze.

“Get in, get
in now.”

“As soon as
she's clear.” Eve remained crouched, pushed Mira aside. As she used her body as
a shield, she had time to register a movement on the stairs, then her clinch
piece was in her hand.

“I lied,
Dave.” She watched his eyes go round with shock, saw him grab for the control,
lower the stunner. The crowd cheered wildly as her blast took him full in the
chest.

His body
jerked, a quick and obscene dance. He was right, she noted, about the finger
twitch. It depressed convulsively on the control even as he fell onto the cage.

Sparks
showered from it, from his quaking body as she dragged Mira clear and curled
herself over her.

“Your jacket's
caught fire, Lieutenant.” With admirable calm, Roarke bent over and patted out
the spark that burned the leather at her shoulder.

“What the hell
are you doing here?”

“Just picking
up my wife for our date.” He reached down gently and helped Mira to her feet.
“He's gone,” Roarke murmured, and brushed tears from her cheeks.

“I couldn't
reach him. I tried, for hours after I woke up in that... in that thing. But I
couldn't reach him.” Mira turned to Eve. “You could, in the only way that was
left. I was afraid you'd -- “ She broke off, shook her head. “I was afraid
you'd come, and afraid you wouldn't. I should have trusted you to do what had
to be done.”

When she
caught Eve in a hard embrace, pressed her cheek against hers, Eve held on, just
held on, then eased away, awkwardly patting Mira's back. “It was a team effort
-- including this civilian this time around. Go spend New Year's with your
family. We'll worry about the routine later.”

“Thank you for
my life.” She kissed Eve's cheek, then turned and kissed Roarke's. And didn't
begin to weep again until she was upstairs.

“Well,
Lieutenant, it's a very fitting end.”

She followed
Roarke's gaze, studied Palmer, and felt nothing but quiet relief. “To the man
or the year?”

“To both.” He
stepped to the champagne, sniffing it as he drew it from the bucket. “Your
team's on the way in. But I think we could take time for a toast.”

“Not here. Not
with that.” She took the bottle, dumped it back into the bucket. On impulse,
she took the badge off her shirt, pinned it on his. “Routine can wait. I want
to collect on my present.”

“Where do you
want to go?”

“Just home.”
She slid an arm around his waist, moving toward the stairs as cops started down.
“Just home, with you.” She heard the crowd erupt with another cheer. “Happy New
Year.”

“Not quite
yet. But it will be.”

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Midnight In Death v1.1 (Part of "Silent Night Anthology"

Title:

Midnight In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective