Her hand shook as she raised the glass again. "There was so much blood. She was so small, but there was so much blood. On the floor, on the wall, all over him. I could see it was still dripping off the knife. Her face was turned toward me. Her little face, with big blue eyes. Like a doll's."

She was silent for a moment, then set her glass aside. "He was too wired up to be stunned. He kept coming. There was blood dripping off the knife, and splattered all over him, and he kept coming. So I looked in his eyes, right in his eyes. And I killed him."

"And the next day," Roarke said quietly, "you dived straight into a murder investigation."

"Testing's postponed. I'll get to it in another day or two." She moved her shoulders. "The shrinks, they'll think it's the termination. I can make them think that if I have to. But it's not. I had to kill him. I can accept that." She looked straight into Roarke's eyes and knew she could tell him what she hadn't been able to say to herself. "I wanted to kill him. Maybe even needed to. When I watched him die, I thought, He'll never do that to another child. And I was glad that I'd been the one to stop him."

"You think that's wrong."

"I know it's wrong. I know anytime a cop gets pleasure of any sort out of termination, she's crossed a line."

He leaned forward so that their faces were close. "What was the child's name?"

"Mandy." Her breath hitched once before she controlled it. "She was three."

"Would you be torn up this way if you'd killed him before he'd gotten to her?"

She opened her mouth, closed it again. "I guess I'll never know, will I?"

"Yes, you do." He laid a hand over hers, watched her frown and look down at the contact. "You know, I've spent most of my life with a basic dislike of police – for one reason or another. I find it very odd that I've met, under such extraordinary circumstances, one I can respect and be attracted to at the same time."

She lifted her gaze again, and though the frown remained, she didn't draw her hand free of his. "That's a strange compliment."

"Apparently we have a strange relationship." He rose, drawing her to her feet. "Now you need to sleep." He glanced toward the dinner she'd barely touched. "You can heat that up when you've gotten your appetite back."

"Thanks. Next time I'd appreciate you waiting until I'm home before you come in."

"Progress," he murmured when they'd reached the door. "You accept there'll be a next time." With a hint of a smile, he brought the hand he still held to his lips. He caught bafflement, discomfort and, he thought, a trace of embarrassment in her eyes as he brushed a light kiss over her knuckles. "Until next time," he said, and left.

Frowning, Eve rubbed her knuckles over her jeans as she headed to the bedroom. She stripped, letting her clothes lay wherever they dropped. She climbed into bed, shut her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

She was just dozing off when she remembered Roarke had never told her who he'd called and what he'd discovered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In her office, with the door locked, Eve reviewed the disc of Lola Starr's murder with Feeney. She didn't flinch at the little popping sound of the silenced weapon. Her system no longer recoiled at the insult the bullet caused in flesh.

The screen held steady on the ending caption: Two of Six. Then it went blank. Without a word, Eve cued up the first murder, and they watched Sharon DeBlass die again.

"What can you tell me?" Eve asked when it was finished.

"Discs were made on a Trident MicroCam, the five thousand model. It's only been available about six months, very pricey. Big seller last Christmas, though. More than ten thousand moved in Manhattan alone during the traditional shopping season, not to mention how many went through the gray market. Not as much of a flood like less expensive models, but still too many to trace."

He looked over at Eve with his drooping camel eyes. "Guess who owns Trident?"

"Roarke Industries."

"Give the lady a bouquet. I'd say the odds were pretty good the boss man owns one himself."

"He'd certainly have access." She made a note of it and resisted the memory of how his lips had felt brushing over her knuckles. "The killer uses a fairly exclusive piece of equipment he manufactures himself. Arrogance or stupidity?"

"Stupidity doesn't fly with this boy."

"No, it doesn't. The weapon?"

"We've got a couple thousand out there in private collections," Feeney began, nibbling on a cashew. "Three in the boroughs. Those are the ones that've been registered," he added with a thin smile. "The silencer doesn't have to be registered, as it doesn't qualify as deadly on its own. No way of tracing it."

He leaned back, tapped the monitor. "As far as the first disc, I've been running it. I came up with a couple of shadows. Makes me certain he recorded more than the murder. But I haven't been able to enhance anything. Whoever edited that disc knew all the tricks or had access to equipment that knew them for him."

"What about the sweepers?"

"Commander ordered them for this morning, per your request." Feeney glanced at his watch. "Should be there now. I picked up the security discs on my way in, ran them. We've got a twenty-minute time lapse starting at three-ten, night before last."

"Bastard waltzed right in," she muttered. "It's a shitty neighborhood, Feeney, but an upscale building. Nobody noticed him either time, which means he blends."

"Or they're used to seeing him."

"Because he was one of Sharon 's regulars. Tell me why a man who was a regular client for an expensive, sophisticated, experienced prostitute, chose a green, low-scale what do you call it, ingenue like Lola Starr for his second hit?"

Feeney pursed his lips. "He likes variety?"

Eve shook her head. "Maybe he liked it so much the first time, he's not going to be choosy now. Four more to go, Feeney. He told us right off the bat we had a serial killer. He announced it, letting us know Sharon wasn't particularly important. Just one of six."

She blew out a breath, unsatisfied. "So why'd he go back?" she said to herself. "What was he looking for?"

"Maybe the sweepers'll tell us."

"Maybe." She picked up a list from her desk. "I'm going to check out Sharon 's client list again, then hit Lola's."

Feeney cleared his throat, chose another cashew from his little bag. "I hate to be the one to tell you, Dallas. The senator's demanding an update."

"I have nothing to tell him."

"You're going to have to tell him this afternoon. In East Washington."

She stopped a pace in front of the door. "Bullshit."

"Commander gave me the news. We're on the two o'clock shuttle." Feeney thought resignedly of how his stomach reacted to air travel. "I hate politics."

Eve was still gritting her teeth over her briefing with Whitney when she ran headlong into DeBlass's security outside his office in the New Senate Office Building, East Washington.

Their identification aside, both she and Feeney were scanned, and according to the revised Federal Property Act of 2022, were obliged to hand over their weapons.

"Like we're going to zap the guy while he's sitting at his desk," Feeney muttered as they were escorted over red, white, and blue carpet.

"I wouldn't mind giving several of these guys a quick buzz." Flanked by suits and shined shoes, Eve slouched in front of the glossy door of the senator's office, waiting for the internal camera to clear them.

"If you ask me, East Washington 's been paranoid since the terrorist hit." Feeney sneered into the camera. "Couple dozen legislators get whacked, and they never forget it."

The door opened, and Rockman, pristine in needle-thin pin stripes, nodded. "Long memories are an advantage in politics, Captain Feeney. Lieutenant Dallas," he added with another nod. "We appreciate your promptness."