Darryn Joy, age seventy-three. Marilynn Kobowski, age forty-one. Lawrence T. Kettering, age eighty-eight.

Already dead or dying, she noted.

Conine A. Stevenson, age fifty. Mitchell B.-

"Wait. Wait. Stevenson, Conine A., full data."

"Get a bump, did you?"

"Yeah, oh yeah." She yanked out her PPC, pulled up the resident information on one of the buildings she'd run, the one a block west of the parking port.

"Stevenson just happened to live within walking distance of the parking port. Twelfth floor-giving a nice view of the area, an excellent view if you happen to have long-range lenses."

"As a photographer would."

"Yeah." She looked back on-screen. "She died, despite what-two years of treatments-last September. No spouse on record. One child, surviving son, Gerald Stevenson. Born September 13, 2028. There's a goddamn bump. Run the son."

"Already on it," Roarke said from behind her as Peabody burst through the adjoining door.

"Dallas, I got something. Javert, Luis Javert." Her face was flushed with the discovery. "Ordered frames-the same style as Hastings's standing order, from the Helsinki outlet. One size-16 by 20. He's had 50 of them shipped to a mail drop in New York, West Broadway Shipping, in Tribeca."

"How'd he pay?"

"Direct transfer. I need authorization to request a warrant for the financials."

"You've got it. Use my badge number. Roarke."

"A bit of time here, Lieutenant. There's more than one Gerald Stevenson in the flaming city. But none with that DOB," he said after a moment. "None at that residence. He's not using that name. If he's changed it legally, I'll have to… dig around a bit."

"Then get a shovel. Her name's still listed as resident on the apartment. Somebody's living there and wouldn't it be Conine Stevenson's son Gerald? Peabody! With me."

"Yes, sir. One minute."

"Tag Feeney," she called to Roarke as she strode out. "Give him what you've got. The more e-drones on this, the better."

"E-men, Lieutenant," he corrected. "E-men." Then he wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to play a complex sonata.

It was good to be back.

She had to wait for Peabody to get back in uniform, so used the time to contact the commander and brief him.

"Do you want uniform backup?"

"No, sir. If he spots uniforms, it might spook him. I'd like Baxter and Trueheart, soft clothes, just to watch the egresses of the building. The suspect has not, to date, demonstrated any violent tendencies, but he may do if and when cornered. The apartment where I believe he resides is twelve floors up. Only way out is through the front door, or out the window and onto the emergency evac route. Peabody and I will have the door. Baxter and Trueheart can man the evac route."

"You've got a nice pile of circumstantial, Lieutenant, but having a mother die of brain cancer isn't going to be enough for a warrant."

"Then I'll have to be persuasive, sir, and convince him to let me inside." She looked over her shoulder as Peabody came down the steps, in her freshly laundered, meticulously pressed summer blues. "We're ready to go here, Commander."

"I'll have your backup in place within fifteen minutes. Move softly, Dallas."

"Yes, sir." She ended the communication.

"Nothing like a clean uniform." Peabody sniffed her own sleeve. "He uses something with just the faintest hint of lemon. Nice. I'll have to ask him what it is when he gets back from his vacation."

"I'm sure the two of you will have a fine time exchanging household hints, but maybe we could focus on our pesky little op for the moment."

Peabody shifted her expression to somber. "Yes, sir." But she admired the knife-edge crease of her uniform trousers as Eve filled her in.

The building had twelve floors, and she considered the advantage of placing one of her backup on the roof. Waste of manpower, she decided. If her target bolted out the window, she could bolt right after him, and head up if that was his tack. He was more likely to shoot for the street, if he bolted at all.

Would he have an escape route mapped out? He was a planner, so it was probable he'd considered the possibility of being cornered in his nest.

She called Roarke. "I need a blueprint display of the target building. I want to see the setup on the twelfth floor, the layout of the target apartment. How fast can you transmit-" She broke off when the diagram filled her screen. "Pretty damn fast," she replied.

"I'd decided to take a look at it myself. As you can see, it's a nice layout. Roomy living space, efficiently sized kitchen, two bedrooms."

"I got eyes. Later."

One bedroom for mom, one for son? She wondered. Did he work in the extra bedroom now? If he worked out of the apartment, why have the frames delivered so far downtown?

If he worked there, how the hell did he get four tranq'd people through building security and up to the twelfth floor?

She was hoping to be able to ask him directly, very soon.

She met up with Baxter and Trueheart in the lobby. It was a small space, very quiet, very clean. Security cams swept the entrance and the two silver-doored elevators. It didn't boast a doorman, live or droid, but it had required a scan of her badge to gain entrance.

"The target is apartment 1208, east-facing unit, third in from the south comer. Windows are, from south to north, numbers six, seven, and eight."

She glanced at Trueheart-couldn't help it. It was so rare to see him in civilian clothes. If possible he looked even younger in the sports shirt and jeans than he did in uniform.

"Where's your weapon, Trueheart?"

He patted the base of his spine, under the long tail of his baby blue shirt. "I thought I'd attract more attention wearing a jacket in this heat. I know it looks a little sloppy, Lieutenant, but it's more usual street wear."

"That wasn't a fashion question."

"She'd be the last to ask one of those," Baxter put in, and looked cool and casual in summer khakis and a faded green tee. "Not that she doesn't always look hot. Especially since somebody with taste's buying her threads these days.'"

"I'll remind you to bite me later. Right now, we're going to try to pinpoint and apprehend a serial killer, so maybe we can talk about how cute we all look some other time.

"Communicators on," she continued. "Weapons low stun. You two take the sidewalk across the street. Spread out. You see anybody at any of the target windows, I want a heads-up. Anybody fitting profile enters or exits the building while I'm inside, I want to know about it. Let's pin him down."

She walked to the elevators, scooping up a fake potted fern on the way.

"I didn't know you liked houseplants, Dallas."

"Home decorating is always on my mind. He sees my face through his security peep, he's not going to open the door. He knows me."

"Oh, camouflage."

"Stay out of the line of sight," she ordered Peabody. "We need him to open the door, establish he's in there, get a look at his face. Record on."

"So if he panics, slams the door again, we've got probable cause and a face."

"And he's bolted in until we get a warrant. Nobody dies tonight," she stated as she stepped out on twelve.

She hitched the fern up, looking through the fronds as she approached the apartment. It had a security peep, full screen, a palm plate, and voice box.

Taking no chances, are you, she thought. You're a careful bastard. Don't want some casual burglar lifting your locks and finding your goodies.

She rang the bell, waited.

The red locked light stayed steady.

She rang again. "Delivery for 1208," she called out.

Hearing the door behind her open, Eve shifted her weight and put her free hand on her weapon.