“Doesn't feel like it, but can we discount straight urban terrorism?”

“It's too clean.” Roarke had it right on that one, she thought. “You want to terrorize, you're messy. Kill the family, rape and torture first, wreck the house, slice up their little dog.”

“They didn't have a little dog, but I get you. And if it was terrorism, some whacked-out group would be taking credit by now. Did we get any reports in? EDD, sweepers, ME?”

“I talked to Feeney. He's on it. Fill you in on the way.”

“To?”

“Morgue, then Central.” She rose, stuffing the last of the gyro in her mouth.

“Want me to let Summerset know we're leaving?”

“Why? Oh. Hell. Yeah, do that.” She crossed to the door joining her office with Roarke's. “Hey.”

He was rising from his desk, slipping on one of his dark suit jackets.

“I'm heading out,” she told him.

“So am I. I've rearranged a few things. Should be back no later than seven.”

“I don't know when.” She leaned against the jamb, frowning at him. “I should put the kid in a safe house.”

“This house is safe, and she's fine with Summerset. A more detailed media bulletin's come through. It doesn't list the names, as yet, but reports on anUpper West Side family, including two children, killed early this morning, in their home. Lists you as primary. Details to follow.”

“I'll have to deal with that.”

“And so you will.” He came to her, cupped her face, kissed her. “You'll do your job, and we'll figure out the rest. Take care of my cop.”

As she'd expected, the chief medical examiner had taken charge of the Swisher homicides. It wasn't the sort of detail Morris would pass to someone else, however qualified or skilled.

Eve found him, suited up, over the body of Linnie Dyson. “I've taken them in order of death.” Behind his microgoggles his dark eyes were cool and hard.

There was music playing. Morris rarely worked without it, but this was somber, funereal. One of those composers, she imagined, who'd worn white wigs.

“I've ordered tox screens on all victims. Cause of death is the same in all. There are no secondary wounds or injuries, though the minor male vie had several old bruises, two fresh, with minor lacerations-long bruising scrapes on his right hip and upper thigh. His right index finger had been broken, set, and healed at some point within the last two years. All injuries look consistent to me with a young boy who played sports.”

“Softball primarily. Fresh deal sounds like he got it sliding into base.”

“Yes, that fits.”

He looked down at the little girl, at the long slice in her throat. “Both minor vies were healthy. All vies had a meal at approximately seven p.m., of white fish, brown rice, green beans, and mixed-grain bread. There was an apple dish with wheat and brown sugar topping for dessert. The adults had a glass of white wine, the children soy milk.”

“The mother, the second adult female, was a nutritionist.”

“Practiced what she preached. The boy had a cache somewhere,” Morris added with a faint smile. “He'd consumed two ounces of red licorice at about ten p.m.”

Somehow it cheered her to know it. At least the kid got a last taste of sweet. “Murder weapons?”

“Identical. Most likely a ten-inch blade. See here.”

He gestured to the screen, magnified the wound on the child's throat. “See the jags? There, on the edge of the diagonal. Swipe down, from his left to his right. Not a full smooth blade, or a full jagged. Three teeth serrating from the handle, the rest smooth-bladed.”

“Sounds like a combat knife.”

“That would be my take. It was employed by a right-handed individual.”

“There were two.”

“So I'm told. Eyeballing it, I'd have said the same hand delivered the killing blows, but as you can see…” He turned to another screen, called for pictures, split screen on Grant and Keelie Swisher. Magnified the wounds.

“There're slight deviations. Male vic's wound is deeper, more of a slicing motion, more jagged, while the female's is more of a draw across. When all five are put up…” He nodded as the screen shifted to show five throat wounds. “You can see that the housekeeper, the father, and the boy have the same slicing wound, while the mother and the girl have the more horizontal drawing across. You'll want the lab to run some reconstructs, but it's going to be a ten-inch blade, twelve at the max, with those three teeth near the handle.”

“Military style,” she stated. “Not that you have to be military to obtain one. But it's just one more piece of the operation. Military tactics, equipment, and weapons. None of the adults did military time, or appear to have any connection to the military. Can't link any of them, at this point, to paramilitary or game playing.”

Then again, she thought, sometimes a cozy family was the perfect cover for covert or dark deeds.

“I've cleared the Dysons.” Eve glanced back at Linnie. “Have they seen her yet?”

“Yes. An hour ago. It was… hideous. Look at her,” he urged. “So small. We get smaller, of course. Infants barely out of the womb. It's amazing what we enlightened adults can do to those who need us most.”

“You don't have any kids, right?” Eve asked.

“No, no chick nor child. There was a woman once, and we were together long enough to consider it. But that was… ago.”

She studied his face, slickly framed by black hair pulled cleanly back in one sleek tail that was bound in crisscrossing silver twine. Under the clear, protective suit, stained now with body fluids, his shirt was silver as well.

“I've got the kid, the one they didn't get. I don't know what to do with her.”

“Keep her alive. I would think that would be priority.”

“Got that part handled. I'll need those tox reports, and anything that pops, as soon as.”

“You'll have them. They wore wedding rings.”

“Sorry?”

“The parents. Not everyone does these days.” Morris nodded toward the scribed band Eve wore on the ring finger of her left hand. “It's not very fashionable. Wearing them is a statement. I belong. They'd made love, about three hours prior to death. They used a spermicide rather than long-term or permanent birth control, which tells me they hadn't ruled out the possibility of more children in the future. That, and the rings, Dallas? I find that both comforts and angers me.”

“Anger's better. Keeps you sharper.”

When she walked toward Homicide in the massive beehive of Cop Central, she spotted Detective Baxter at a vending unit, getting what passed for coffee. She dug out credits, flipped them to him. “Tube of Pepsi.”

“Still avoiding contact with vending machines?”

“It's working. They don't piss me off, I don't kick them into rubble.”

“Heard about your case,” he said as he plugged in her credits. “And so did every reporter in the city. You got most of them hassling the media liaison and hammering for an interview with the primary.”

“Reporters aren't on my to-do list right at the moment.” She took the tube of Pepsi he offered, frowned. “You said most. Why is Nadine Furst of Channel 75 even now sitting on her well-toned ass in my office?”

“How do you know? Not about the ass, anybody could see Furst's got an excellent ass.”

“You've got cookie crumbs on your shirt, you putz. You let her into my office.”

With some dignity, he brushed off his shirt. “I'd like to see you turn down a bribe of Hunka-Chunka Chips. Every man has his weakness, Dallas.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'll kick your well-toned ass later.”

“Sweetheart, you noticed.”

“Bite me.” But she studied him as she broke the tube's seal. “Listen, how's your caseload?”

“Well, as you're my lieutenant I should say I'm ridiculously overworked. I was just coming in from court when I was distracted by Furst's ass and cookies.”

Keying in his code, he ordered a tube of ginger ale from the machine. “My boy's writing up the three's on one we caught last night. Double D that went nasty. Guy'd been out drinking and whoring, according to the spouse. They got into it when he crawled home, smacked each other around-as per usual according to the neighbors and previous reports. But this time she waited until he'd passed out, then cut off his dick with a pair of sheers.”