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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing."

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

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

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

"No."

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

"He has no business here, or with you."

"Not at the moment. Please sit. Be comfortable."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Given his interests." Ricker sipped his drink. "Business interests."

"And does his business concern you, Mr. Ricker?"

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

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

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

"Roarke can take care of himself. Can you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My attorneys," he explained.

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

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

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

"I do indeed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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