She strode forward; they scrambled back. As the doorman pulled open the door for her, he muttered, “Nice work.”

He came in behind her, leaving the two wide-shoulders to deal with any loitering press.

“You'll want to see the Dysons,” he began. “They've asked not to be disturbed.”

“I'm sorry. They'll have to be.”

“I understand. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me call up first, let them know you're down here. Give them a couple of minutes to… Mother of God.” His eyes filled with tears. “That little girl. I saw her every day. She was a sweetheart. I can't believe… Sorry.”

Eve waited while he pulled out a cloth, mopped at his face.

“You knew her, and the Swisher girl. Nixie.”

“Nixie Pixie.” He balled the cloth in his hand. “I'd call her that sometimes when she came over to visit. Those kids were like sisters. The reports this morning are saying she's okay. That Nixie, she's alive.”

She judged him to be six feet, and in fighting trim. “What's your name?”

“Springer. Kirk Springer.”

“I can't give you any information right now, Springer. It's against procedure. You see a lot of people come in and out of here, a lot of people pass on the street. Have you noticed anybody hanging around, maybe a vehicle that was parked in the vicinity that wasn't familiar?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Building's got security cameras on the entrance. I can get clearance, get you copies of the discs.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Anything I can do. That kid, she was a sweetheart. Excuse me, I'll call upstairs.” He paused. “Officer?”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant. The Dysons, they're good people. Always got a word for you, you know? Don't forget you on your birthday or Christmas. So anything I can do.”

“Thank you, Springer.” When he walked away to make the call, Eve said, “Run him.”

“Sir, you don't think-”

“No, but run him anyway. Get the names of the other doormen, and the security staff, the building manager, the maintenance staff. Run the works.”

“It's 6-B, Lieutenant.” Springer's eyes were still teary when he came back. “To the left of the elevator. Mrs. Dyson's waiting for you. Again, appreciate you dispersing the hounds out there. These people deserve their privacy.”

“No problem. Springer, you think of anything, give me a heads-up at Central.”

When they stepped into the elevator, Peabody read off from her pocket unit. “He's married, two kids, Upper West Sider. No criminal. Employed here the last nine years.”

“Military or police training?”

“No. But he'd have to have security orientation-personal and building-to rate a gig on a building like this.”

With a nod, Eve stepped off, turned left. The door to 6-B opened before she rang the bell.

Jenny Dyson looked older than she had the day before. Older, pale, with that distant look Eve saw in accident victims struggling between shock and pain.

“Mrs. Dyson, thank you for seeing us.”

“You found him. You found the man who killed my Linnie.”

“No, ma'am. Can we come inside?”

“I thought you'd come to tell us. I thought… Yes, come in.” She stepped back, glanced around her own living space as if she didn't quite recognize it. “My husband, he's asleep. Sedated. He can't… They were so close, you see. Linnie, she's Daddy's girl.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, shook her head.

“Mrs. Dyson, why don't we sit down?” Peabody took her by the arm, led her to a long sofa done in a striking, in-your-face red.

The room was bold, splashy colors, big shapes. A huge painting that looked to Eve to represent some sort of swollen sunset in shades of searing red and gold and vivid orange dominated the wall behind the sofa.

There was a wall screen and a mood screen, both turned off, tables in sheer and glossy white, and a tall triple window, with its red curtains tightly closed.

In the excited cheer of the room, Jenny Dyson seemed only more pale. More a faded outline of a woman than flesh and blood.

“I haven't taken anything. The doctor said I could, probably should, but I haven't.” Her fingers worked as she talked, linking together, pulling apart. “If I did, I wouldn't feel, would I? What I need to feel. We went to see her.”

“Yes, I know.” Eve sat across from her, in a chair of lively purple.

“The doctor said she wouldn't have suffered.”

“No. I understand this is a very difficult time-”

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“I don't think you can understand, I really don't.” There was a hint of anger in the tone-the how-dare-you-presume-to-understand. Then it fizzled into dull grief again. “She came from me, from us. And she was so beautiful. Sweet and funny. Happy. We raised such a happy child. But we failed. I failed, you see. I didn't protect her. I didn't keep her safe. I'm her mother, and I didn't keep her safe.”

“Mrs. Dyson.” Sensing a meltdown, Eve spoke sharply. Jenny's head snapped up. “You're right, I can't understand, not really, what you feel, what you're going through, what you have to face. But I do know this. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“This isn't about what you did or didn't do to protect Linnie. This isn't your failure, not in any sense. This was beyond your control, beyond your husband's, beyond anyone's but the men who did this thing. They're responsible, and no one else. And this I do understand, the way you can't, at least not now. Linnie is ours now, too. We can't protect her now, but we will serve her. We will stand for her. You have to do the same.”

“What can I do?” Her fingers kept moving. Together, apart. Together, apart.

“You were friends with the Swishers.”

“Yes. Good friends. Yes.”

“Did either of them say anything to you about being worried, even uneasy, as regarded their safety.”

“No. Well, sometimes Keelie and I talked about what a madhouse the city can be. All the precautions you have to take to live here. But there was nothing specific.”

“What about their marriage?”

“I'm sorry?”

“You were friends. Would she have told you if she had a relationship outside of the marriage, of if she suspected her husband did?”

“They-they loved each other. Keelie would never.” Jenny touched a hand to her face-temple, cheek, jaw-as if assuring herself she was still there. “No, Keelie wasn't interested in anyone else, and she trusted Grant. They were very steady, family-oriented people. Like us. We were friends because we had a lot in common.”

“They both had clients. Any trouble there?”

“There were irritations, of course. Some difficulties. Some people would come to Keelie looking for miracles, or instant gratification. Or they'd sign up with her when they'd have been better off just going to a body sculptor, because they weren't willing to alter their lifestyle. And Keelie's philosophy was about health and lifestyle. Grant handled a number of custody cases that weren't always pleasant.”

“Any threats?”

“No, nothing serious.” She stared beyond Eve to the red wall of curtains. “A client demanding their money back from Keelie, or filing suit because they didn't get the results they wanted when they were stuffing their faces with soy chips. And Grant would get the sort of outrage or anger lawyers deal with because they're lawyers. But for the most part, their clients were satisfied. Both of them built a solid base because of referrals and word of mouth. People liked them.”

“Were they ever involved in anything or with anyone illegal? This isn't about protecting them,” Eve added.

“They believed in doing the right thing, in setting an example for their children. Grant used to joke about his wild college days, and how he'd once been arrested for possession of some Zoner. How it scared him enough to straighten him out.”

She curled her legs up in a way that told Eve the gesture was habitual, thoughtless. “They didn't have a strong family base, either of them. It was important to them to make one, and to raise their own children on that base. The closest either of them would have come to doing something against the law was jaywalking or cheering too loudly at one of Coyle's games.”