She watched those windows, the lights and shadows, for another moment in silence.

“Or, and we both know this, too, sometimes the taking of a life hardens you, it… calcifies your conscience. He deserved it, I only did what I had to do. Or worse yet, it excites. It opens a door in you that was so secret, so small, so tightly locked no one, even you, knew it was there. And there’s a kind of joy in that. Look what I did! Look at the power I have.”

It could still make her sick, deep in the belly, if she let it.

“That’s the type who can never go back,” she said quietly, but her eyes were hard, almost fierce. “Who have to do it again because sooner or later, the power demands it. Some of the shrinks will claim that’s a kind of madness, that compulsion to feel that power and excitement again. But it’s not. It’s greed, that’s all.”

She shifted to him. “I know this. I felt that power, even the excitement, when I killed my father.”

“You can’t toss self-defense in with murder. You can’t equate murder with a child fighting for her life against a monster.”

“It wasn’t murder, but it was killing. It was ending a life. It was blood on my hands.”

He took the hand she held out, shook his head, pressed his lips to the palm.

“Roarke, I know the power of that, the sick excitement. I know the horrible, tearing guilt, and even the hardening of the heart, the soul, because I felt all of that over time. All of it. I know, even though what I did wasn’t murder, what the murdering can and does feel. It helps me find them. It’s a tool.”

She touched his cheek, understanding that the memories, the idea of what she’d been through until the night when she’d been eight, hurt him as much as they hurt her. Maybe more now, she realized. Maybe more.

“I was twenty-three the next time I took a life,” she continued. “Fifteen years between. Feeney and I went after a suspect. He’d beaten two people to death, in front of witnesses, left DNA and trace all over the scene. Slam dunk, just have to find him. We followed a lead to this dive. Sex club where his girlfriend worked. We figured we’d shake her down a little, see if she knew where he was. Well, where he was happened to be the sex club. Idiot girlfriend screams for him to run, and runs with him. He’s mowing people down right and left, and those who aren’t mowed are stampeding. We chased him all the way up to the roof, and now he’s got a ten-inch blade against the idiot girlfriend’s throat, who is now singing another tune.

“It’s summer.” She could still feel it, smell it, see it. “Hot as a fuck in hell. Sweat’s pouring down his face. Hers, too. He’s screaming at us how he’ll slice her open if we come any closer. And now there’s blood trickling down with her sweat where he’s given her a jab to show he means it. He’s using her as a shield, and Feeney doesn’t have the angle for a stun stream.”

“But you do,” Roarke murmured.

“Yeah, I do. Barely, but I’ve got it. And we’re trying to talk him down, and it’s not going to happen. He gives her a second jab. Feeney keeps talking, talking, pulling the guy’s attention to him, and gives me the go signal.”

And Roarke could see it, too. He could see it in her eyes as she spoke.

“I stun him-nice clean stream, and his body jerks the way it does with a hit. She shoves forward to get clear, pushes clear, bumps him back, and he’s jerking. The son of a bitch went right over the edge. Momentum, gravity, bad luck, whatever, but he went over and hit the sidewalk eight stories down.

“I didn’t feel excited when I looked down at him. I didn’t feel guilty either. A little shaky, sure. Jesus, it was a straight stun, neither of us expected him to go over that way. I didn’t even have to go through Testing. We’d turned on our recorders when we started the chase, and it was all on there, it showed the girlfriend’s push and stumble caused the fall. Or basically. Bad luck for him, that’s all.”

She let out a breath. “But I’m the one who aimed and fired. Fifteen years between. It took me that long to be sure, absolutely sure, I wouldn’t feel that excitement, or that guilt, or that hardening when I had to take another life.”

She looked back toward the building. “One of those three, at least one of them, might be wondering if they’ll feel that again. One of them may want to.”

“I can’t tell you how much I hope you’re wrong.”

Her eyes, flat and cool, met his. “I’m not.”

“No. I very much doubt you’re wrong.”

13

She spent a great deal of time picking through data on the lives of three people, analyzing it, scraping away at tiny details of family background, education, finances, and communication.

She played each one against Mira’s profile, and the computer matched each one of them with a reasonably high probability to the general outline.

Organized, detail-oriented, competitive, wide e-skills, known and trusted by victim.

But the violence-that face-to-face, blood-on-the-hands cruelty bottomed them out again.

Still, nowhere could she find any hint, much less any evidence, that any had bought a hit.

Money wasn’t the only currency, she mused. A favor, sex, information-all those could stand in for dollars and cents and never show on any balance sheet. But that didn’t account for the fact Bart had known his killer. There was simply no reason to believe he’d allowed a stranger into his apartment, into his holo-room, into his game.

One more time, she told herself, and rose to study and circle her board.

Vic comes home happy, whistling a tune. And comes in alone according to both the doorman and the security cameras. EDD verifies by all that’s holy there’d been no tampering with the locks, and no entry before the vic’s in any access into the apartment.

Still, she considered, we have three very skilled, very clever e-geeks. If there was a way to bypass without it showing, they’d find it.

Or, more realistically, one of them, or another party met the vic outside and entered with him.

Only the droid says otherwise-and once again EDD remained firm that no one tampered with or reprogrammed the Leia droid.

Eve shut her eyes.

“Maybe he doesn’t secure the door immediately. He’s excited, happy. The droid brings him a fizzy, he tells her to go ahead and shut down. The killer may have entered at that time, after the droid shut down, before the door was secured. It’s possible.”

The friendly face shows up, Eve thought, tells the vic, I could-n’t resist. I want in on the game, or want to observe. One of the partners, she thought again. You play, I’ll document and observe.

Also possible, she concluded. Why wait until after-hours? It’s almost ready. Let’s run it. The killer could’ve brought the disc, which explains why the vic didn’t log it out, as was his routine. Or, the killer told the vic he or she would log it for him.

The weapon might have already been on the premises, or brought in by the killer.

And the game begins. System reads solo. Bart plays, killer observes-it’s logical, it’s efficient.

But at some point, the killer stops observing. Bruising, wrenched shoulder indicate a scuffle.

And that, Eve thought, was where it just didn’t fit for her.

The weapon’s there, the plan’s in place, so why the scuffle? Bart’s in good shape-superior shape for a geek-and he’s studied combat moves. Why risk a fight, why risk him getting some licks in?

An argument? Passion of the moment? No, no, dammit, it wasn’t impulse. Too many safeguards in place.

Ego? She studied the three faces on the board.

Yes, ego. I’m better than you are. It’s about time you found out how much better. Tired of playing sidekick and loyal friend and partner. Have a taste of this.

She studied the autopsy photos, the data, rocked back and forth on her heels.