She had been flung facedown, arms and legs spread. Her hair was long and curly and had once been blonde with sapphire highlights. Some of that gold and blue still showed through the matted blood.

Eve heard her own voice detailing the scene, saw herself step into view, and crouch by the body.

"You can see the illegals scattered over the rug. What appears to have been a hospitality bowl was found, broken, in this living area. Traces of substances identified as Jazz and Erotica were still in the damaged bowl. Switch to bedroom record."

The disc shifted, showed a large, sun-washed room done in blacks and reds. The sheets on the bed were torn off. The desk unit's monitor faced the recorder, and read:

ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED

"A smaller bowl, undamaged, can be seen here on the dresser. Various illegal substances are still in it, and others are on the floor. It appears Greene continued to use while the symptoms of the infection manifested. There were traces of blood on the sheets, probably from a nosebleed, and traces of semen indicating he was capable of masturbating or engaging in sexual relations with Wade prior to death. Autopsy will tell us which. Wade's body showed no evidence of recent sexual activity."

"Where the hell is he?" Baxter asked.

"We'll get there. Reconstruct tells me, he probably spent some time closed up in the bedroom, popping illegals, jerking off, while in the last hours, Wade entertained herself in the living area. Ate junk food, got buzzed, watched some screen. Greene wouldn't have been good company, but hanging in a Park Avenue condo with easy access to illegals, plenty of food, lots of alcohol, was a better deal than picking up a few tricks on the street, maybe getting busted. She'd tough it out until he came around."

Trueheart raised his hands again. Baxter simply kicked him lightly, shook his head. "Uh-uh," he whispered. "She's in the zone."

"Eight transmissions came in during the last three days. Neither of them answered. They were all for Greene. She wouldn't be interested in playing his admin. At some point this afternoon, she gets up. Maybe she wants to go out, look for some action. Maybe she goes to the bedroom, but he's locked the door. Asshole. Her clothes are in there. How she's supposed to go out if she can't get her clothes, slick up some? She wants him to open the door, open the goddamn door, but he doesn't. She kicks at it, bruises her toes. Pisses her off. Bumps it a couple times with her left hip, bruises that some, too. Fuck him."

She could see it, almost feel the girl's edgy frustration. All buzzed up and nowhere to go. "She heads into the kitchen, looking for something sweet. You get a sweet attack with Jazz. Gets herself some ice cream, and feeling put out, writes asshole on the counter in chocolate sauce.

"She turns around, and there he is. He looks bad, really bad. His nose is bleeding, his eyes are red. His breath is horrible, and the rest of him smells like a sewer. Doesn't look like he's changed out of his underwear in days. If he thinks she's going to do him now, he is so wrong."

She brought the kitchen of the condo back into her head. White and silver and red from the blood. "She says something, something a teenager thinks is clever and cutting. He hits her, hits a good one across the face. Knocks her back so she bangs her head on the AutoChef, drops her bowl of ice cream. It hurts. She hit her head hard enough to break the skin, enough to leave some skin and hair on the door of the AutoChef. It blurs her vision for a second and scares her. But not as much as seeing Greene take the knife, the big silver knife, out of the block.

"He slashes at her. She throws her hands up, and the knife slices across both her palms. She tries to run, and the blood from her hands splatters on the white wall. Then from her shoulder, probably her shoulder as he swipes at her again. He doesn't hack. No down strokes in that room. Just those long, sweeping slashes. Left to right, right to left.

"She's screaming, begging, crying, trying to run. Get away. But those swipes keep catching her. The back, the buttocks, the shoulders again. Through the dining alcove. He opens her up good there, hits an artery and the blood starts spurting. She's dead then. She doesn't know it. She still thinks she can get away. She makes it to the living area before she goes down on that white rug. Crawls a few inches. Then he starts hacking."

"Jesus," McNab said softly, prayerlike.

"He doesn't know who she is, doesn't care." Eve's face was stone-cold as she stared at the screen. "She's stopped screaming, but his head won't. He throws the goodie bowl, smashes the screen, shoves at tables, stabs the sofa a few times. He has to stop the pain. He goes back in the bedroom, but he can't stand it. He shoves open the terrace doors. He's still got the knife, and he looks like he's been painted red. He screams, and screams. At the air traffic, at the street below, at his neighbor who comes out on her terrace two apartments down. She runs back in, locks herself in, and calls the cops. By then it's all over. Bedroom terrace view," she ordered.

He was lying on his back, and looked like a man who'd been swimming in a river of blood.

He'd plunged the knife into his own heart.

"Got your timing."

Wanting to stay with the action in the lab, McNab set up in a corner. He liked listening to the familiar language of compu-jocks as Feeney and Jamie debated the next level, or when Roarke weighed in with an opinion.

They were close, he knew they were right on the verge of duplicating the virus. Once they had it, they could fight it.

Eve walked over to him. She wasn't sure why she'd come into the lab-the last place she was needed. Unless it was to get away from her own thoughts.

"Here's our girl," he continued, taping the image onscreen. "Coming in with Greene. Doorman had it. She doesn't show before this time and date. Perv rubs her ass as they walk in. He's old enough to be her father."

"She walked in of her own free will." Eve studied the girl's face. The suggestive smirk, the glittering eyes. Oh yeah, she thought. Figured you knew the score. You didn't know a damn thing.

"Yeah, well, doesn't make him less a perv. She pops in and out. Never see her before noon. When she makes the daylight appearances, she's back before nightfall. Usually has a couple bags with her. High-end stores. He must foot the bill for the shopping. She's thinking she's got a good thing going."

"Hmm. They go out together."

"Yeah." He zipped through the disc. "Jumped up for a night out. Look half-buzzed already, all duded out. Up till the six days prior to implosion, they went out every night. We got three visitors during the time frame, all male."

He keyed in to the view outside Greene's condo. "This first one goes in, stays sixteen minutes. Bet the contents of his briefcase switched during that little social call."

"Time to test the merchandise and count the money," Eve agreed. "Do we know if Illegals was tracking this guy?"

"Don't. Can." Unconsciously, McNab flexed his fingers, working on the tingle that hadn't quite faded. "I got some contacts there. Far as I can tell, the perv skimmed the line, kept legitimate business avenues open, didn't deal too heavy."

"Second visitor?"

"Different deal. Stayed ninety-eight minutes. No bag,"

Eve studied the second man entering, exiting. "Sex," she said flatly. "What about the third?"

"Forty-minute stay, carried a disc bag in and out. Likes his sex on vids, I guess."

"I know this guy. I know him. Tripps. Deals bootlegged vids. Has a few runners on the street. Yeah, I know him. I'll tap him if I need to, see if he can draw me a picture. Run the other faces for ID in case we need them."