Something flickered in her mind. “Okay, how could they be sure Moss would be the one to engage the engine? What about the wife?”

“Didn't drive.”

“Not good enough. Even private lots can make a few extra fees by renting out a vehicle. You got to factor that in. And Kirkendall would want a hundred percent success rate. I want the lab to take another look. I'm betting there was a fail-safe on it. That he had control, and could detonate or abort by remote if necessary. Clinton's their E and B man,” she stated. “That's the specialty that pops out of his data, but Kirkendall would want the control.”

“I'll give the lab a push,” Baxter agreed. “We also spoke with the primary on the Duberry murder. Now there's a guy who's dug in.”

“Meaning?”

“He figured the ex-boyfriend. He still figures the ex-boyfriend. I'm not going to say he missed anything on the investigation, but I'll be going over it again myself. He homed on this guy and that's that.”

“Boyfriend alibied?”

“Right and tight. Get this.” He wiggled a fry at her, bit it in two. “He's home alone, and the building's scan cams are crap. So yeah, you might think, hey, he could slip out, do the deal, slip back, no big. But in the apartment above him, there's this guy with this big-ass water bed. Snuck that in past building regs. Weighs a fricking ton. Top it off, he likes to party. Got himself two economy-sized ladies up there for a three-way. And while they're surfing, they get pretty enthusiastic. Bed pops, and you got yourself a frigging ocean. Water comes gushing through the ceiling, and nearly drowns the guy below. Big altercation between upstairs and down, all witnessed by neighbors-and taking place at the time Duberry was strangled.”

“Huh.” Eve stepped over, stole one of Baxter's fries.

“Primary's sure the guy was behind it. You got a woman with no known enemies, ordinary life. You got no sexual assault, no burglary, so you gotta figure personal.”

“Ex-boyfriend's going to rape her-high probability,” Eve put in. “Do some damage to her face, too. That's personal.”

“Yeah, but the primary figures he hired somebody to do her. But the guy doesn't have the financials for a hit. He's barely making rent. And this was a prime hit. He's got no priors, no known association with the dark side. The guy's not in it, Dallas. We started the interviews again. Nobody comes up with any motive, nobody remembers the vie talking about any worries. Her communication and data equipment is long gone, but EDD did the scans, and came up zip.”

“Okay, clock out for the night. Peabody and McNab are out talking to Kirkendall's former sister-in-law. We'll brief here, oh eight hundred.”

“Good enough. Listen, Trueheart and I thought we could take the night shift on the kid. We can bunk here.” He shrugged a shoulder when Eve frowned at him. “She's a cutie. Gets to you. Rough day for her. We could hang out with her awhile, take her mind off it.”

“Talk to Summerset about where you should bunk. I appreciate the extra duty.”

“No problem.” He lifted the burger to his mouth again, then paused. “Where did Peabody head to interview the sister-in-law?”

“Nebraska.”

“Nebraska.” He bit in, chewed thoughtfully. “Do people really live there? I thought it was one of those myths. You know, like Idaho.”

“People live in Idaho, too, sir,” Trueheart told him.

“Step out.” Baxter laughed, and swept a fry through ketchup. “The stuff you learn.”

The two-passenger shuttle landed in a small cargo station in North Platte. As per Roarke's memo, there was a vehicle waiting for the last leg of the trip.

Peabody and McNab stood in the chilly evening air, staring at the sleek black jewel.

“Oh my God. I thought the shuttle was mag.” Heart skipping, Peabody circled. “You know, the sleep chairs, the comp stations, the menu on the AutoChef.”

“The speed,” McNab added with a dopey grin.

Peabody sent him one back. “Yeah. Way uptown. But this-”

“It's a beast.” McNab trailed his fingers over the hood. “Man, this baby's gotta wing.”

“Bet your ass.”

But when she started to open the driver's-side door, he took her arm. “Wait. Who says you get to pilot?”

“My partner's primary.”

“Not good enough.”

“Her husband provided the transpo.”

“Not even,” he said with a shake of his head. “I've got a grade on you, Detective Baby.”

“I wanna.”

He laughed, and dug into one of the many red pockets on his baggy pants. “I say we flip for it.”

“Let me see that credit first.”

“This level of trust is sad,” he said, but handed it over.

She studied it, turning it over, and back.”Okay, you call, I flip.”

“Tails, due to how much I like yours.”

“Fine, I'll take heads due to the fact yours is so empty.” She tossed the credit, snatched it out of the air, and slapped it on the back of her hand. “Damn it!”

“Woo-wee! Strap it in, She-Body, 'cause we're going to orbit.”

She sulked as she walked around to settle in the passenger's side. Not that it wasn't bodacious, even in that position. The seat molded to the tail McNab admired, like a lover's hands, and the dash was a gleaming curve armed with enough gauges to make his claim of going into orbit not out of the realm.

Still pouting, she engaged the map, programmed the desired location. And was told in the computer's melodious male voice the most direct route, given an ETA of twenty minutes at posted speed limits.

Beside her, McNab put on black-framed sun shades with hot red lenses. “We gonna beat that down cold.”

He was right, she thought. The beast did wing. The thrill of it infected her enough to order the sky roof open.

“You pick the tunes,” McNab shouted over the roar of engine and wind. “And pump it up!”

She went for trash rock-it seemed to fit-and screamed along with the song as they tore south.

The insanity that was McNab cut the travel time nearly in half. She took a portion of the time saved to rake at what was now a bird's nest on her head, and tame it down to her usual ruler-straight bowl cut. McNab pulled a folding brush out of another pocket and whacked at his knotted ponytail.

“Nice place,” he commented, looking around the yard, the field of corn that ran alongside it. “If you go for rural.”

“I do. To visit anyway.” She studied the neatly painted red barn, the smaller, trimmer outbuilding, and the pasture where a few spotted cows grazed. “Somebody takes good care of this.”

She got out, looked at the narrow patch of lawn, the ordered beds of fading fall flowers that led to a two-story white house with a covered porch.

There were festive pumpkins, two with grinning faces carved out, on the steps, reminding her Halloween was only days away.

“Do some dairy,” she observed. “Some row crops. Probably got some chickens out back.”

“How do you know?”

“This stuff I know. My sister's farm's bigger than this, and she does okay. Hard work, you have to love it to do it, I think. Place like this is small, but well-run. Mostly they self-provide, sell some of the harvest and the by-products at a local market for transport. Maybe they got a hydro out back, too, so they can grow through the winter. But that costs.”

He was out of his element. “Okay.”

“She was an exec at one of the top communication companies in New York. Fast track. Husband was a producer-daytime drama. Individually they were pulling down double our combined salaries.”

“Now they're working a farm in Nebraska.” He nodded. “I get you.”

“Somebody already knows we're out here.”

“Yeah.” Behind the shades, his gaze tracked to the dot of yellow blinking above the front door. “They got motion and cams, bet it's a three-sixty scan. More on the fence lines, east and west. A lot of security for a little farm in West Bumfuck, Nebraska.”

They went to the door, knocked. Steel-reinforced, MacNab thought, and noted the shimmer on the windows. Lockdown alarms.