Their problem.

She hooked her badge to her waistband, headed in.

“Suit's here,” one of the uniforms called out, and she stopped in her tracks.

She turned, very slowly, caught him in the crosshairs of her cold gaze. “Don't ever call me a suit.”

She left him, withered, and moved toward the crumpled body of Meredith Newman. “First on scene?” she asked the uniform standing by.

“Yes, sir. My partner and I responded to a call from this location, reporting a body in the alley between the buildings. One of the owners of the restaurant stepped out in the alley on her break, and observed what appeared to be a body. Upon responding, we-”

“I got it. Have you secured the witness?”

“Yes, sir, along with other kitchen staff who also entered the scene in response to the first witness's screams.”

Eve puffed out her cheeks as she looked around the alley. “How many people have tromped around on my scene?”

“At least six, Lieutenant. I'm sorry, they'd already come out, looked around-and moved the body-by the time we arrived. We moved the civilians back into the restaurant and secured the scene.”

“All right.” She did another study of the alley. Short and narrow, dead-ending into the graffiti-laced wall of another. Confidence, arrogance again, she decided. They could have dumped her anywhere, or simply destroyed the body.

Still, there was no security here. No cams on any of the exit doors. Pull in, dump, pull out. And wait for somebody to trip over what's left of her.

“Seal up, Trueheart,” she ordered, and continued to examine the body as she drew out her own can of Seal-It. “Record on. What do you see?”

“Female, early thirties, clothes removed.”

“You can say naked, Trueheart. You're of age.”

“Yes, sir. Ligature marks, wrists, ankles. What appear to be burn marks on shoulders, torso, arms, legs, indicate torture. The throat's been deeply cut. There's no blood. She wasn't cut here, but killed elsewhere and put here.”

Eve crouched, turned one of the dead hands at the wrist. “She's cold. Like meat you put in a friggie to keep it fresh. They had her stowed. She's been dead since the day they grabbed her.”

But she got out her gauge to estimate the time of death and confirmed. “Burn marks on her back and buttocks as well. Bruising might be from the grab. Abrasions are consistent with the body hitting the pavement, rolling. Way postmortem.”

She fit on her goggles, examined the area around the mouth and eyes. “It looks like they taped her up. Skin's reddened here, shows a pattern that would match tape, but there's no residue.”

She sat back on her heels.

“What else do you see, Trueheart?”

“The location-”

“No, the body. Focus on her. She's been dead for days now. There's evidence of considerable torture. She had her throat cut, and going with previous pattern, she was alive when the knife went in. What do you see?”

Concentration settled over his face. Then he shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“She's clean, Trueheart. What do you do when somebody inflicts burns on your body strong enough to singe flesh? You don't just scream your lungs out and beg for mercy. You piss yourself, you soil yourself, you puke. Your body erupts, and it voids. But she's clean. Somebody washed her down, even to removing the residue from whatever they used to blindfold and gag her. We won't find any trace on her.”

She bent close, sniffed the skin. “Smells like hospital. Antiseptic. Maybe the lab boys can give us more there. For what it's worth. She bit right through her own lip,” Eve observed, then pushed to her feet.

She put her hands on her hips, studied the alley. The usual overworked recyclers, but it was clean, too, as alleys went. Some graffiti- sort of artsy-but none of the nasty debris left behind by sidewalk sleepers or junkies, even the street LCs and their clients.

She turned to the first on-scene. “What do you know about this place-this restaurant here, this business next door.”

“Actually, it's a Free-Ager center-classes, crafts, like that. And the restaurant's run by the group. Grow a lot of the stuff in Greenpeace Park, bring it in from some of their communes. Run a clean place, even if it is mostly health food.”

“Run a clean alleyway, too.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. We don't get many calls here.”

“The woman who found her, what's her name?”

He had to consult his book. “Leah Rames.”

“Trueheart, stay here, sweepers should be on-scene momentarily.”

Eve walked into the storeroom, took a quick glance at the tidy shelves of supplies, and moved into the kitchen beyond.

Tidy was the watchword here, as well. Something was steaming on the stove, but that stove was huge and scrubbed to a gleam. Counters were simple white, covered with signs of meal prep in progress. Who knew it took so much stuff to make food? There were friggies and cold boxes, some kind of gargantuan oven, and not a civilized AutoChef in sight.

Several people, all wearing long white aprons, were seated on stools around an island counter. Some of them were chopping at things with wicked-looking knives. Others just sat. And all looked at her when she entered.

“Leah Rames?”

A woman, mid-forties, lean, long sandy hair thickly braided, lifted a hand like a schoolgirl. Her face was milk-white.

“I'm Leah. Do you know what happened to that poor woman?”

The gash in the throat should've been a clue, but something about the earnest question and the earnest setup of the kitchen sucked up Eve's sarcasm.

“I'm Lieutenant Dallas, with Homicide. I'm the primary on this matter.”

“You're Dee's boss-partner,” Leah corrected with an attempt to smile. “Is she with you?”

“No, she's on another assignment. You know Detective Peabody?”

“Yes, and her family. My life partner and I lived near the Peabodys until we moved here.” She reached out to lay her hand over the hand of the man who sat beside her.

“We opened our center and restaurant about eight months ago. Peabody and her young man came for dinner once or twice. Can you tell us what happened? We know everyone in this area. We've made a point of it. I know there are some rough characters, but I can't believe anyone who comes here could have done this.”

“You don't have security on your alley exits.”

“No.” It was the man who spoke now. “We believe in trust. And in giving back.”

“And in community relations,” Leah added. “We give food out in the alley after closing every night. We spread the word that we would provide this service as long as the alley was kept clean, that no one used it to do illegals, to harm anyone else, or littered. The first few weeks it was touch and go, mostly go, but eventually the food, given freely, turned the tide. And now..”

“Why did you go out in the alley?”

“I thought I heard something. Like a thud. I was in the storeroom getting some supplies. Sometimes people come, knock on the door early. I opened the door, thinking if they didn't seem in dire need, I'd tell them to come back at closing. She was right there, right by the door. She was naked, and facedown. I thought, By the goddess, someone's raped this poor woman. I bent down, I spoke to her… I touched her, her shoulder, I think, I'm not sure. I touched her, and she was so cold. I didn't think dead, not immediately. I just thought, oh, poor, poor thing, she's so cold, and I turned her over, calling for Genoa.”

“She called.” The life partner took up the story. “I could tell something was wrong, by the tone, and I stopped what I was doing in here. She started screaming before I got to the storeroom. Several of us rushed out then. I thought she was injured-the woman-and tried to pick her up. Then I saw she was dead. We called for the police. I stayed with her, with the woman, until they came. I thought someone should.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alley? See any vehicle or person leaving the alley?” she asked Leah.