“Jackthe Ripper?” With her mouth dropping open, Peabody trotted to catch up. “You mean like over inLondon, back in… whenever?”

“Late1800 s. Whitechapel. Poor section of the city during the Victorian era, frequented by prostitutes. He killed between five and eight women, maybe more, all within about a one-mile radius over a period of a year.”

She got behind the wheel, flicked a glance over to findPeabody gaping at her. “What?”Eve demanded. “I can’t know stuff?”

“Yes, sir. You know great bundles of stuff, but history isn’t generally your long suit.”

Murder was,Eve thought as she pulled away from the curb. And always had been. “While other little girls were reading about fluffy as-yet-ungutted duckies, I was reading aboutJack, and other assorted serial killers.”

“You read about… that sort of thing when you were a kid?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well…” She didn’t quite know how to put it. She was aware thatEve had been raised in the system, in foster homes and state homes. “Didn’t any of the adults in charge monitor your interests? What I mean is my parents-and they were big on not restricting our choices-would’ve brought the hammer down in that sort of area when we were kids. You know, formative years and all, nightmares, emotional scarring.”

She’d been scarred, in every possible way, long before she could read more than a few basic words. As for nightmares,Eve didn’t remember a time she hadn’t had them.

“If I was scrolling the Internet for data on the Ripper orJohnWayneGacy, I was occupied and out of trouble. Those were the essential criteria.”

“I guess. So, you always knew you wanted to be a cop.”

She’d known she wanted to be something other than a victim. Then she’d known she’d wanted to stand for the victim. That meant cop to her. “More or less. The Ripper sent notes to the police, but only after a while. He didn’t start off, like our guy. But this one wants us to know what he’s about straight off. He wants the play.”

“He wants you,” Peabody said and got a nod of acknowledgment.

“I’ve just come off a highly publicized case. Lots of screen time. Lots of buzz. And the Purity case, earlier this summer. Another hot one. He’s been watching. Now he wants some buzz of his own.Jack got plenty of it back in the day.”

“He wants you involved, and the media focused on him. The city fascinated by him.”

“That’s my take.”

“So he’ll hunt other LCs, in that same area.”

“That would be the pattern.”Eve paused. “And what he wants us to think.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

Her next stop was Jacie’s counselor, who worked out of a three-office suite on the lower fringes of theEastVillage. On her large, overburdened desk was a bowl of colorful hard candies. She sat behind them in a gray suit that gave her a matronly air.

Evejudged her to be on the shadowy side of fifty, with a kind face and, by contrast, a pair of shrewd hazel eyes.

“TressaPalank.” She rose to offerEve a firm handshake before gesturing to a chair. “I assume this concerns one of my clients. I’ve got ten minutes before my next session. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me aboutJacieWooton.”

“Jacie?” Tressa’s eyebrows lifted, a slight smile touched her lips, but there was a look in her eyes, a steady look of dread. “I can’t believe she’d give you any trouble. She’s on a straight path, determined to earn back her A-Grade license.”

“JacieWootonwas murdered early this morning.”

Tressa closed her eyes, did nothing but breathe in and out for several seconds. “I knew it had to be one of mine.” She opened her eyes again, and they remained direct. “As soon as I heard the bulletin about the murder inChinatown, I knew. Just a feeling in the gut, if you understand me. Jacie.” She folded her hands on the desk, stared down at them. “What happened?”

“I’m not free to give you the details as yet. I can only tell you she was stabbed.”

“Mutilated. The bulletin said a female licensed companion had been mutilated in aChinatown alley early this morning.”

One of the uniforms,Eve thought, and there would be hell to pay for the leak when she found the source. “I can’t tell you any more at this time. My investigation is in its earliest stages.”

“I know the routine. I was on the job for five years.”

“You were a cop?”

“Five years, sex crimes primarily. I switched to counseling. I didn’t like the streets, or what I saw on them. Here, I can do something to help without facing that day after day. This isn’t a picnic, by any means, but it’s what I do best. I’ll tell you what I can; I hope it helps.”

“She spoke to you recently, about her upgrade.”

“Denied. She has-had-another year’s probation. It’s mandatory after her arrests and addiction. Her rehab went well, though I suspect she’d found a substitute for the Push she was hooked on.”

“Vodka. Two bottles in her flop.”

“Well. It’s legal, but it violates her parole requirements for upgrade. Not that it matters now.”

Tressa rubbed her hands over her eyes and simply sighed. “Not that it matters,” she repeated. “She couldn’t think of anything but getting back uptown. Hated working the streets, but at the same time never considered, not seriously, any alternative profession.”

“Did she have any regulars you know of?”

“No. She once had quite an extensive client list, exclusive men and women. She was licensed for both. But, to my knowledge, no one followed her downtown. I believe she would’ve told me, as it would’ve boosted her ego.”

“Her supplier?”

“She wouldn’t give a name, not even to me. But she swore there had been no contact since her release. I believed her.”

“In your opinion, did she hold back the name because she was afraid?”

“In mine, she considered it a matter of ethics. She’d been an LC nearly half her life. A good LC is discreet and considers her clients’ privacy sacred, much as a doctor or a priest. She considered this along the same lines. I suspect her supplier was also a client, but that’s just a hunch.”

“She gave no indication to you during your last sessions that she was concerned, worried, afraid of anything or anyone?”

“No. Just impatient to get her old life back.”

“How often did she come in?”

“Every two weeks, per her parole requirements. She never missed. She had her regular medicals, was always available for random testing. She was cooperative in every way. Lieutenant, she was an average woman, a little lost and out of her element. She was not street savvy as she’d been accustomed to a more select clientele and routine. She enjoyed nice things, worried about her appearance, complained about the rate restrictions at her license level. She didn’t socialize any longer because she was embarrassed by her circumstances, and because she felt those in her current economic circle were beneath her.”

Tressa pressed her fingers to her lips a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to be upset, not to personalize it, but I can’t help it. One of the reasons I was no good out there. I liked her, and wanted to help her. I don’t know who could’ve done this to her. Just another random act, on one of the weaker. Just a whore, after all.”

Her voice threatened to break, so she cleared her throat, drew air through her nose. “A lot of people still think that way, you and I both know it. They come to me beaten and misused, humiliated and battered. Some give it up, some handle themselves, some rise to a different level and live almost like royalty. And some are tossed into the gutter. It’s a dangerous profession. Cops, emergency and health workers, prostitutes. Dangerous professions with a high mortality rate. She wanted her old life back,” Tressa said. “And it killed her.”