She sighed, and this time she did smile when she turned. "I was too mad at you to think about it. We've got a hell of a lot of work to do in a short amount of time. You might as well come with me for now."

"I thought you wanted to go over the security."

"I do, but back at Central. I only set up this meet here so I could yell at you in private."

"Isn't that odd? I agreed to the meet here so I could yell at you in private."

"Shows how screwed up we are."

"On the contrary." He held out a hand for hers. "I'd say it shows we're incredibly well suited for each other."

– =O=-***-=O=-

As trying to squeeze more than two people into Eve's cramped office violated several laws of physics, she held the briefing in the conference room.

"Time's short," she began when her team was seated. "As the homicide cases and the matter of Max Ricker have dovetailed, we'll be pursuing them both on parallel lines. Lab results, data searches, and probability scans regarding the homicides are in your reports. I haven't requested a warrant but will do so, with an obligatory DNA test, if the suspect refuses to come in on his own volition. Peabody and I will pick him up, quietly, after the briefing."

"Probability's low," Feeney pointed out, frowning at the printout in his file.

"It'll get higher, and his DNA will match that of the fingernail found on the Bayliss crime scene. Due to Sergeant Clooney's years of service to the department, his exemplary record, his emotional state, and the circumstances that built and were built around him, I prefer to bring him in personally, and hope to persuade him to make a full statement. Dr. Mira is on call to counsel him and offer testing."

"The media's going to rock and roll over this."

Eve gave McNab a nod of acknowledgment. "We can and we will spin the media." She'd already decided to contact Nadine Furst. "A veteran officer with a perfect service record whose son-only son-follows in his footsteps. A father's pride. A son's dedication. Because of that dedication, because of that honor to the badge in a squad where a few cops-and let's keep it at a few for public record-are corrupt, the son is targeted."

"Proving that-" Feeney began.

"We don't have to prove it," she interrupted. "It just has to be said to be believed. Ricker," she continued. "He was behind it. I don't question that. Moreover, Clooney didn't. His son was clean, intended to stay clean. He moved up the ranks to detective. He couldn't be bought. He was assigned in the early stages of the Ricker op, I have that from Martinez's notes. Just a peg in the board, but a good cop. A hereditary cop. Put this together," she suggested and rested a hip on the conference table.

"He's straight, he's young, and he's smart. He's ambitious. The Ricker task force is a good break for him, and he's going to make the most of it. He pushes, he digs. Ricker's sources in the squad relay that information. They're nervous. Ricker decides to make an example. One night, the good cop stops off in his neighborhood 24/7. He habitually swung by there on his way home after his shift. A robbery's in progress. Look at the report: That location hasn't been hit before or since, but it was being hit that night, at just the right time. The good cop goes in and is killed. The proprietor makes a frantic emergency call, but it takes a squad car ten full minutes to arrive on-scene. And the med-techs, due to what's reported to be a technical delay, don't arrive for ten more. The kid bleeds to death on the floor. Sacrificed."

She waited a beat, knowing any cop in the room would see it as clearly as she did. "The squad car was manned by two men, and their names were on the list Vernon gave me this morning. Ricker's men. They let him die, one of their own. And the signal was sent: This is what happens if you cross me."

"Okay, it plays," Feeney agreed. "But if Clooney's following the same dots, why didn't he hit the cops in the squad car?"

"He did. One of them transferred to Philadelphia three months ago. He was hanged in his bedroom. Ruling was self-termination, but I think the PPSD will reopen that case. Thirty credits were scattered on the bed. The other drowned, slipped in a bathtub while on vacation in Florida. Ruled accidental. The coins were found there, too."

"He's been eliminating them for months." Peabody blew out a breath. "Just ticking them off, and going on with business."

"Until Kohli. Kohli snapped him. He liked Kohli, knew his family, felt close to him. More, his son and Kohli were friends, and when Ricker, through IAB, planted Kohli, spread rumors that he was on the take, it was like losing his son all over again. The eliminations became more violent, more personal, and more symbolic. Blood on the badge. He can't stop. What he does now he does in his son's memory. In his son's honor. But knowing he killed an innocent man, a good cop, is breaking him down. That's Ricker's angle. He can sit back and watch us destroy each other from within."

"He's not that clever, not anymore." Roarke spoke up. "He wouldn't understand a man like Clooney, or that kind of love and grief. Luck," he said. "He put the pieces on the tray, and luck, or if you prefer, love, linked them."

"That may be, but putting the pieces on the tray is enough to fry him. Which brings us to the second avenue of this investigation. As you are now aware, Roarke has been enlisted as temporary civilian liaison on the matter of Max Ricker. Peabody, are you familiar with the street name for civilian liaison?"

Peabody squirmed. "Yes, sir." When Eve merely waited, Peabody winced. "Um… weasel, Lieutenant. The street name's weasel."

"I imagine," Roarke said, "that weasels are adept at catching rats."

"Good one." Feeney leaned over and slapped Roarke on the back. "Damn good one."

"We have a very big rat for you." She straightened, jammed her hands in her pockets, and outlined the plan for the rest of the team.

There was no doubt who was in command here, Roarke thought as he watched her. Who was in control. She left no angle unexplored, no corner unswept. She prowled the room, thinking on her feet, and her voice was clipped.

In some past life she'd have been wearing a general's braiding. Or armor.

And this woman, this warrior, had trembled in his arms. That was the power between them. The miracle of it.

"Roarke?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Something in his eyes had her heart stuttering a bit. She clamped down on it, frowned at him. "I'll leave you to go over the security with Feeney and McNab. I don't want any holes in it. Not a single pinprick."

"There won't be any."

"Make sure of it. I'm calling Martinez in on this for the bust. And she'll get the collar when it goes down. Any objections?" She waited, got none. "Peabody, you're with me."

She started out, glanced back. Roarke was still watching her, the faintest of smiles on that killer mouth, the faintest glint in those wild blue eyes.

"Jesus, he makes your mouth water."

"Sir?"

"Nothing." Mortified, she strode out. "Nothing. Has my unit been repaired or replaced?"

"Dallas, that's so sweet. I didn't know you believed in fairy tales."

"Damn it. We'll steal one from somewhere." Then she began to grin. "I'll just take Roarke's."

"Oh, tell me it's the XX. The 6000. It's my favorite."

"How the hell are we going to bring in a suspect in a two-seater? It's some snazzy sedan type today. I've got the code. Won't he be surprised when he goes down and finds it gone. I think-"

Distracted, she nearly walked into Webster. "Lieutenant, a minute of your time."

"I'm low on minutes, walk and talk."

"You're going for Clooney."

"Goddamn it." Though he'd kept his voice low, she whipped her head around to be sure no one had heard. "What makes you think that?"

"I still have my sources." His face was grave, and his voice remained quiet. "You left the breadcrumbs. I can still follow the trail."