"Be sure that it doesn't, and contact Ms. Furst. I want you to offer her another one-on-one, this time with you in control of your emotions."

Eve didn't have to feign the annoyance now. "I'd like to avoid the media for the near future, Commander. I think – "

"That wasn't a request, Lieutenant. It was an order. You made the mess, now clean it up. And quickly."

Eve closed her mouth, teeth first, and nodded.

She worked off her temper for the next hour by dealing with paperwork, and when that didn't do the trick, she contacted maintenance and scalded their ears over the as-yet unrepaired guidance system in her vehicle. Calmer, she drafted an e-message for Nadine offering another interview and shot it off before she could brood about it.

And throughout it all she waited for her 'link to beep. She wanted him to call, willed him to call. The sooner he made his move, the sloppier he would be.

Who is he? Sociopath, sadist, egotist. Yet, there was something weak and sad and even pathetic about him. Riddles and religion, she mused. Well, that wasn't so strange. Religion was a riddle to her. Believe this, and only this, because we say so. If you don't you're buying a one-way ticket to everlasting Hell.

Organized religion baffled her, made her vaguely uncomfortable. Each had followers who were so sure they were right, that their way was the only way. And throughout history they'd fought wars and shed oceans of blood to prove it.

Eve shrugged, idly picked up one of the three statues of the Madonna she'd lined on her desk. She'd been raised by the state, and a state education was forbidden, by law, to include even a whiff of religious training. Church groups were forever lobbying to change that, but Eve thought she'd done well enough. She'd formed her own opinions. There was right and wrong, the law and chaos, crime and punishment.

Still, religion, at its best, was supposed to guide and to comfort, wasn't it? She glanced at the pile of discs she'd amassed in her research of the Catholic faith. It remained a mystery to her, but she thought it was supposed to. That was its core, the mystery shrouded in pomp and pageantry. And its rituals were lovely and visually appealing.

Like the Virgin. Eve turned the statue in her hand, studying it. What had Roarke called her? The BVM. It made her sound friendly, accessible, like someone you could take your troubles to.

I can't quite work this one out, I'll ask the BVM.

Yet she was the holiest of women. The ultimate female figure. The Virgin Mother who'd been called on to bear the Son of God, then watch him die for the sins of man.

Now there was a madman using her image, twisting it, using it to stand witness to man's inhumanity to man.

But mother was the key, wasn't it? she mused. His mother, or someone he viewed as that figure of love and authority.

Eve couldn't remember her mother. Even in the dreams she was powerless to control there was nothing and no one in that role. No voice soft in lullaby or raised in anger, no hand stroking gently or slapping in annoyance.

Nothing.

Yet someone had carried her for nine months, had shot her from womb to world. Then had – what? Turned away, run away? Died? Left her alone to be beaten and broken and defiled. Left her shivering in cold, dirty rooms waiting for the next night of pain and abuse.

Doesn't matter, Eve reminded herself fiercely. That wasn't the point. It was this man's background that mattered now, what had formed him.

Eve Dallas had formed herself.

Gently she set the statue down again, staring into that serene and lovely face. "Just another sin on his plate," she murmured, "using you as part of his obscenities. I have to stop him before he does it again. I could use a little help here."

Eve caught herself, blinked in shock, then laughed a little as she ran a hand through her hair. The Catholics were pretty clever, she decided, with their statues. Before you knew it you were talking to them – and it was a hell of a lot like praying.

It isn't prayers that will bring him down, she reminded herself. It was police work, and she'd be more productive at home. A decent meal, a good night's sleep would keep her primed.

She discovered Medavoy's car was gone when she reached the garage, and since there was no memo stuck to her windshield she assumed he had yet to notice the new dent in his passenger-side door.

The garage echoed around her. She heard the whine of an engine starting up, the quick skid of tires on asphalt. Seconds later a unit bulleted by. The sirens hit the air as the car zipped out of the garage and into the night.

She uncoded her locks, reached for the handle. Footsteps sounded behind her. She whirled, her weapon in her hand, her body in a crouch.

The footsteps skidded to a halt, and the man threw up his hands. "Whoa. At least read me my rights."

She recognized the detective from her unit and reholstered her weapon. "Sorry, Baxter."

"Jumpy, aren't we, Dallas?"

"People shouldn't go skulking around garages."

"Hey, I'm just heading to my vehicle." He winked as he uncoded a car two down from hers. "Got myself a hot date with a saucy senorita."

"Ole, Baxter," she muttered and, annoyed with herself, slid behind the wheel. It took three tries for the engine to catch. She decided she would go to maintenance personally in the morning and murder the first mechanic who crossed her path.

The temperature control hummed straight to warm, then shot into roast. Eve ordered it off with a snarl and settled for the late November chill.

She drove two blocks, hit a traffic snarl and sighed. For a time she simply tapped her fingers on the wheel and studied the new animated billboard over Gromley's Theater Complex. A dozen different videos were advertised. She watched an air chase between two sky-cycles over New Los Angeles that ended with a very impressive crash and display of flames. She pondered the beautiful couple who rolled across a spring meadow wearing little but glossy skin. The latest kid-flick was next in line and offered a trio of dancing spiders garbed in top hats and tails.

She inched forward, ignoring the bad-tempered honks and shouted curses of other drivers similarly situated.

A teenage couple riding tandem on an airboard surfed through the snarled traffic in a bright flash of color. The driver beside her resigned herself to a long wait by turning up her music system to an ear-splitting pitch and singing along in a loud, off-key voice.

Overhead an airbus blatted. There was something smug in the sound, Eve thought. Yeah, yeah, she mused, scowling up at it, if more people took advantage of public transpo, we wouldn't be in this fix.

Bored, Eve pulled out her communicator and tagged Peabody.

"You might as well call it a night," Eve told her. "I'm in a vehicle jam here and my ETA is anyone's guess."

"There's this rumor about pizza."

"Okay, enjoy then, but if you're still there when I get in, you're going to have to give me a full report on the day's work."

"For pizza, Lieutenant, I would face much worse."

She watched it happen. It was perfectly choreographed for disaster. Three cars ahead of her, two Rapid Cabs shot into vertical lift at the same time. Their fenders brushed, bumped. The cabs shimmied. Even as Eve was shaking her head over idiocy, the cabs lost their lift and hit the street with resounding thuds.

"Well, damn."

"Problem, Dallas? Thought I heard a crash."

"Yeah, a couple of brain dead cabbies. Oh yeah, that's going to help. Now they're out of their rides and screaming at each other. This'll get traffic moving, all right."

Her eyes narrowed as she saw one of the cabbies reach through his window and pull out a metal bat. "That tears it. Peabody, call for a couple of black-and-white floaters, assault with deadly in progress, Tenth Avenue between Twenty-fifth and -sixth. Tell them to make it fast before we have a riot. Now I'm going to go give these assholes a lesson in driving courtesy."