Farrell sent him one quiet look, then called for the file.

"This matter was investigated and ruled death by misadventure. Investigating officer…" She trailed off, sighed. "Inspector Maguire. You knew him?'' she asked Roarke.

"Yes, I knew him."

"I did not, not personally. But his reputation is not one this department has pride in. You knew the men who murdered this girl."

"I knew them. They're dead."

"I see." Her gaze flickered. "Their names, please."

As Roarke listed each, Farrell pulled files, scanned them.

"They were not sterling citizens of our city," she murmured. "And they died badly. One could say… vengefully."

"One could," Roarke agreed.

"Men who choose that lifestyle often die badly," Eve put in. "It's my belief that due to the link to Marlena's murder, this killer has set out to avenge one or more of their deaths in the mistaken belief that Roarke was responsible. Those who died in New York also knew Marlena and the true circumstances of her death. Summerset was her father and maintains a close personal relationship with Roarke. I've distracted him for the moment, but we have another day or two at best before he kills the next."

"Do you have any idea who will be next?"

"Nineteen years, Inspector," Roarke said. "I've contacted everyone I can think of who might be a target. But even that didn't help Jennie."

"I can access official data on the families of these men," Eve began, "but it's not enough. I need a personal take from a professional eye. I need a cop's view, a cop who knows them, their styles, their minds. I need a workable list of suspects."

"Do you have a profile on your man?"

"I do."

Farrell nodded. "Then let's get to work."

"Career criminals," Farrell commented, tapping a slim black pointer against her palm. They'd moved into a small, windowless conference room with a trio of wall screens. She gestured toward the first image. "Ryan here, a bad one, I put him in the nick myself five years back on armed robbery and assault. He's vicious, but more a bully than a leader. He's been out for six months – but it's doubtful he'll stay that way. He doesn't fit your profile." Across the room Eve had tacked stills to a wide board, victims on one side, possible suspects on the other. Taking Farrell's word, she removed Ryan.

"O'Malley, Michael."

"He was in the system the night Conroy was murdered." Eve frowned at the data beside the image. "Drunk driving."

"He has a problem with the bottle it seems." Farrell scrolled down, noted the dozens of violations for drunk and disorderly, driving while intoxicated, disturbing the peace. "And a wife beater as well. A darling man."

"He used to get pissed-faced then knock around the girl he was courting. Annie, I think her name was."

"Annie Murphy. And she married him and gets knocked around even today." Farrell sighed.

"A creep but not the killer." Eve pulled down his still. "How about charmer number three."

"Now here's a likely one. I've had dealings with Jamie Rowan, and he's not a bonehead. Smart, smug. His mother's family came from money that bought him a fine education. He has a taste for the high life."

"Handsome son of a bitch," Eve commented.

"That he is, and well aware of his charms. A gambling man is Jamie, and when those who lose don't pay quick enough, he has one of his spine crackers pay a visit. We questioned our boy here for accessory to murder just last year. It was one of his men right enough who did the deed on his orders. But we couldn't stick it."

"Does he ever crack spines himself?"

"Not that we've ever proved."

"We'll keep him up, but he looks too cool to me, more of a button pusher. Did you know him, Roarke?"

"Well enough to bloody his eye and loosen a few of his teeth." Roarke smiled and lighted a cigarette. "We would have been about twelve. He tried to shake me down. Didn't work."

"Those are the last three of your main possibles. So now we're down to – what?" Farrell took a quick count of the stills. "An even dozen. I'm inclined toward Rowan here, or Black Riley. The smartest of the lot."

"Then we'll put them at the top. But it's not just brains," Eve continued, walking around the conference table. "It's temperament, and it's patience. And ego. And it's certainly his personal religion."

"Odds are for Catholic if he's from one of these families. Most are churchgoers, attending Mass like the pious of a Sunday morning, after doing as they please on a Saturday night."

"I don't know a lot about religion, Catholic or otherwise, but one of the transmissions he sent was identified as a Catholic Requiem Mass, and the statues he leaves at the scene are of Mary, so that's my take." Absently Eve fingered the token in her pocket, pulled it out. "This means something to him."

"Luck," Farrell said. "Bad or good. We've a local artist who uses the shamrock as her signature on her paintings." Farrell frowned when she turned it over. "And a Christian symbol. The fish. Well, there I'd say you have a man who thinks Irish. Pray to God and hope for luck."

Eve slipped the token back in her pocket. "How much luck will you have pulling these twelve in on something for questioning?"

Farrell laughed shortly. "With this lot, if they're not brought in once a month or so they feel neglected. If you like, you can go have a bit of lunch, and we'll start a gathering."

"I'd appreciate it. You'll let me observe the interviews?"

"Observe, Lieutenant, but not participate in."

"Fair enough."

"I can't stretch that to include civilians," she said to Roarke. "You might find the afternoon more profitable by looking up some of your old friends and standing them to a pint."

"Understood. Thank you for your time."

She took the hand Roarke offered, held it a moment while she looked into his eyes. "I pinched your father once when I was a rookie. He took great exception to being arrested by a female – which was the mildest term he used for me. I was green, and he managed to split my lip before I restrained him."

Roarke's eyes went cool and blank. He drew his hand free. "I'm sorry for that."

"You weren't there as I recall," Farrell said mildly. "Rookies rarely forget their first mistakes, so I remember him quite well. I expected to see some of him in you. But I don't. Not a bit. Good day to you, Roarke."

"Good day to you, Inspector."

By the time Eve got back to the hotel, lunch had worn off and jet lag was fuzzing her mind. She found the suite empty, but there were a half dozen coded faxes waiting on the machine. She added more coffee to her overburdened system while she scanned them.

She yawned until her jaw cracked, then put through a call to Peabody's palm 'link.

"Peabody."

"Dallas. I just got in. Have the sweepers finished with the white van found abandoned downtown?"

"Yes, sir. Wrong trail. That van was used in a robbery in Jersey and dumped down on Canal. I'm still pursuing that lead, but it's going to take more time to eliminate vehicles. The cabdriver was a wash. He didn't even know his tags had been lifted."

"McNab make any progress on the jammer?"

Peabody snorted, then sobered. "He claims to be making some headway, though he phrases all of it in electro-ese and I can't make it out. He had a great time with some e-jockey of Roarke's. I think they're in love."

"Your snotty side's showing, Peabody."

"Not nearly as much as it could be. No transmissions have come through, so our boy's taking a break from mayhem. McNab is staying here at your home office tonight in case there's a send. I'm staying, too."