Chapter 18

When she walked into the house with her takeout bag, Eve had a moment of panic. Summerset—the Grim Reaper of welcome home—wasn't lurking. Even as she started toward the in-house intercom, she caught the murmur of voices from the parlor. Another time she'd come home like this flashed through her mind. Another time, another killer, and one who'd gotten past Summerset's guard.

Quietly, she shifted the bag to her left hand, laid her right on her weapon, and pivoted to the doorway.

She saw Summerset, at his ease, a lowball glass in his hand, the cat on his lap. A woman she'd never seen before sat across from him, with the fire snapping away in the hearth between them.

"Lieutenant." Summerset continued to stroke the cat, only lifted his eyebrows at the position of her right hand.

"Who is this?" Eve demanded, and left her hand where it was.

"An old friend. Ivanna, meet Lieutenant Dallas. Lieutenant, Ivanna Liski."

"I've heard so much about you." Ivanna set her glass aside, held out a hand—sort of like royalty, Eve thought, extending a ring to be kissed. "It's lovely to meet you."

The accent, Eve noted, like Summerset's, held the faintest trace of Eastern Europe. Satisfied enough, Eve took her hand off the butt of her weapon, crossed the room to shake Ivanna's.

Delicate, Eve thought. Everything about the woman said delicate. The pale blond hair that swept into a long wave around a porcelain-doll face. Clear blue eyes, softly pinked lips, cameo features blended into fragile beauty. Eve gauged her, on closer look, at around seventy.

"Nice to meet you, and I haven't heard a thing."

"Always discreet." On a musical laugh, Ivanna glanced toward Summerset. "We've known each other for too many years to count. Lawrence was my first love."

"Really?" Eve decided to give her psyche a break and not try to imagine it.

"A woman's first always holds a strong place." Ivanna laid a hand on her heart, just below a square-cut sapphire. "You have a lovely home. It's been far too many years since I've been to New York, been able to visit."

"You don't live here."

"Paris, for the past several years, but my granddaughter lives here now, and is to be married here next week. So I've come for the wedding, for family." She smiled back at Summerset. "And for old friends."

"Well, enjoy it. I've got to..."

"Your work is important, and we can't keep you. The police. There was a time," she said, playfully, to Summerset.

"Times change."

"Oh, so they do, no matter how you might try to hold them in place. I hope to see you again," she told Eve.

"Sure," was the best Eve could think of.

She left them to their whiskey and memories, and started upstairs.

Russian, Ukrainian, possibly Czech—who knew?—but the voice brought images of gypsy campfires and crumbling castles in shadowy mountains. Still, it was hard to picture the delicate beauty with the sapphire and the pale blue dress ever being attracted to the bony, skull-faced Summerset.

She went straight to her office, figuring on stowing the takeout in the kitchen, writing up her report, putting in some solid thinking time.

And found Roarke in his own office, at his own desk. He wore a sweater the color of night fog, and when those wild blue eyes flicked up to hers, they held both welcome and ease.

"Hey. I didn't know you were home."

"For a bit now, just finishing up a few things. What have you got there?"

"I made dinner." She held up the takeout bag. "Some kind of soup and bread sticks and pie."

"You've been busy. What sort of pie?"

"Damn good pie, I'm told. Hungry?"

"Now that you mention it."

"I'll set it up. I could handle some wine if you want to get that. It's been a day."

"I don't see any fresh blood or bruises."

"Not that kind of day," she said, turning back into her office. "But it was close. Closer, somebody would've been bloody."

She scowled at the sketches on the murder board. "Somebody," she repeated, then went back into the kitchen and decided to work backward through the day. "Summerset has a woman."

"I believe he has." Roarke stepped into the kitchen behind her, turned her, kissed her lightly in welcome. "And has had, a number of them."

"Don't even," she warned. "I mean he has a woman downstairs."

"Ivanna, yes." Roarke wandered back out to her office, considered what wine to open for dinner. "She arrived just before I did. I came up more to give them privacy than to work."

Eve stuck her head out a moment. "For what?"

"To catch up, for a start. It's been several years, I believe, since they've been in the same place at the same time."

"You know her?"

"I do, yes. Quite a fascinating woman."

"What's a fascinating woman doing with Summerset?"

He opted for a sturdy Merlot. "Reminiscing. To start. They were very young when they met, and had an intense and passionate relationship."

She couldn't image Summerset young, and really, really didn't want to imagine him passionate.

"Then she went to Kiev—or it may have been Moscow," Roarke considered, then shrugged. "She was, some forty, fifty years ago, a brilliant and famous dancer. Prima ballerina. I've seen recordings of her onstage, and she was truly stunning."

"Okay, I can see that." Eve carted out the meal, including the pie.

"She traveled around the world, fell in love with her choreographer. They had two children." He offered Eve the wine. "They were very young when he was killed. The dawn of the Urbans. And she danced for the rich, the privileged, lived her life as one of them. Or so she made it appear. She worked in intelligence."

Eve blinked, brought back the image of delicacy and grace. "She was a spy?"

"And quite brilliant at that as well, if the stories are true. She worked with Summerset when he was based in London."

Eve sampled the soup—whatever was in the kitchen sink was pretty good. "He was a medic."

"Among other things, as you well know. He was married, so they remained friends and compatriots. At one point, she hid her children with his wife. And was godmother to Marlena when she was born. And, I'm told, was there for him when he lost his wife."

Crowded lives, Eve thought. Long and crowded. Times changed, she remembered, no matter how you tried to hold them in place.

"I met her for the first time in Dublin," Roarke said, "after Summerset took me in. I'd never seen the like of her—so elegant and cultured. And kind. She came to him again after Marlena was killed. I think he might have gone mad with grief if she hadn't come to him."

Eve laid a hand over his for a moment. The brutal murder of Summerset's young daughter was a wound she knew had never healed for Roarke, for Summerset.

"It's good he had someone. That you both did."

"They rekindled their romance."

"Okay, ick." She removed her hand. "I don't need that information."

"And every few years they manage to be in the same place at the same time, and... reminisce."

She rolled her eyes when he grinned at her. "Absolutely not going there."

"Best not. In any case if things weren't as things are, I'd suggest we take them out to dinner. She's someone you'd enjoy, a great deal, and she'd entertain you, believe me, with stories of her very multilayered life."

"She looks so delicate. I'd never have pegged her as being an Urban War operative. Which would be the point of being one."

"The ballet takes strength and endurance as well as grace and talent. And espionage, particularly during war? A spine of steel. Yes, you'd enjoy her."

"Next trip maybe, but right now..." She picked up her wine. "I was about ten feet away from ending this with a flying tackle today."

He'd reached for a bread stick, paused, surprised. "You found her? And didn't lead with that?"

"If I'd found her, I'd be at Central grilling her sorry ass. She got away from me."

And that, Eve realized, would sting for a while.

"I spotted her, wearing her full gear so I didn't get any better look at her than any of the wits so far. She was across the street from Mavis's apartment."

"Mavis and the family are all right?"

"All good there, tucked up with security—Mantal and Grommet."

"Then tucked up well," Roarke said, gave her half the bread stick.

"And McNab rigged some sort of alarm so if anyone tries to get in at Mavis's, it'll go off at their place."

"That's good thinking."

"Yeah, he was wearing the thinking hat today."

"Cap."

"What's the difference?"

"Idiom."

"Schmidiom. So I spotted her, but she had a good lead because she spotted me at the same time. I had to get across the street—fucking traffic—then haul ass after her down the sidewalk, which was packed with pedestrians. She's fast, too," Eve credited, and bit into the bread stick. "Pretty damn fleet of feet. I thought I'd lost her, but she'd cut through this dump of a restaurant. I could hear the crashing and yelling from the kitchen, so I'm after her. Maybe, maybe I get her. But the cook, and he's about the size of Everest, gets in my way. Clears it when I badge him, but she rabbited. So we got soup and pie out of it, since they felt bad about slowing me down."

"It's nice soup."

"It's amazing soup if you consider it came from a hole-in-the-wall."

"You don't think she'd have tried for Mavis today if you hadn't seen her?"

"No. Just strolling the neighborhood, getting the feel, that's my sense of it. Maybe she'd've gone in the building—used the fake master. Just as well she didn't, because she'd have ditched it when it didn't work. This way, we'll have her next location if and when she tries."

She finished off the pretty good soup. "Bella tried to eat the diamond." Eve tugged on her chain. "What does Leonardo do but walk off leaving me holding the kid? Why would any sane person do that?"

"It's a wonder," he said, smiled.

"So she digs it out while I'm trying to figure out what to do with her. Popped that sucker right in her mouth when I wouldn't just hand it over. She likes the shiny, I guess. Calls them ba-bas. Baubles."

"Baubles." Laughing, he sat back. "Trust Mavis to start the girl early."

"She had this look in her eye—the kid. Like: Not going to give it to me? That's what you think, sister. It was a little scary considering she's about a foot and a half."

She shoved the bowl aside, and decided the pie had to wait.

"I'm glad I went by. Not only because I got a chance to put the fear of God into the UNSUB, but I can cross worry about Mavis off the list. She's covered."

"And the others? How many will you worry about tonight?"

"I talked to all of them. My gut says, if she's going to go for someone tight with me, it'll be Nadine or Mira, since Mavis is off the list. She can't try for Mavis, not now anyway. I'm going to tag both of them, push the stay-inside, be-careful routine."

She got up, just had to get up, walked to the board.

"Murdering Morphing Dollies."

"Excuse me?"

"McNab thinks you should produce a vid game. Murdering Morphing Dollies. When he had the hat on today, he and Yancy got together, came up with a series of possible sketches. Using math and probability and ratio and dimension and what the hell."

"Interesting." Considering, he finished his wine. "And actually there's a customer base who'd go mad for Murdering Morphing Dollies."

"They dressed their ‘dollies' in trashy underwear and skimpy bikinis."

"Well, of course. Why don't I have a look?"

"Because of the trashy underwear?"

"Such things are always a factor, but for now, to see the concept."

She set it up, then stood studying the images on screen with him.

Head angled, he smiled. "Hmm. We'd need to include weapons. An ax—perhaps a halberd—maybe a boomer, definitely a vial of poison."

"What?"

"Sorry, the game idea. It's intriguing. The body type... No, you're not looking for fragile or soft. She carried the dead weight of a full-grown woman. She outran you."

"She didn't outrun me," Eve protested, insulted. "She had a street-wide lead plus, because I had to dodge traffic to get across."

"Apologies." But his lips twitched. "I mean to say she's quick. How far did you chase her?"

"Two and a half blocks, not counting through the restaurant."

"Quick and at least some endurance as all this would've been as flat-out as possible. So the odds are she's in shape."

"She runs," Eve stated, then cocked her head. "She's fast, yeah, yeah, and likely fit. Maybe she trains. A fitness center maybe, keep in tune. She had Bastwick planned all the way through, I'm sure of it. So she knew she'd have to carry her from the living area to the bedroom since she wanted her on the bed. And—shit."

"What?"

"I'm an idiot. She put her in bed. She killed Ledo in bed."

Eve began to pace. "I don't know what she planned for Hastings. No way she would carry him all the way upstairs. But he's got props, right? In the studio. Something that could stand in for a bed. That's what she'd use for him. Why in bed? Why does she put them or take them in bed?"

"Vulnerability? Sleep, sex, sickness. Wouldn't those be the top reasons for being in bed? All of those make you vulnerable."

"Good, that's good." Struck, she pointed a finger at him. "They're vulnerable, she's in control. And it's tidy, too, isn't it? She doesn't leave them sprawled on the floor. She cuts out the tongue—that's a statement—but doesn't otherwise mutilate. Tidy. And a bed, it's like a display. Here's your present."

She told him about the holo program she'd run, the time lag. How she calculated the killer had used it.

"You challenged her today. The media conference."

"I need to piss her off, shake her up. I think I did. And chasing after her added to it. I'm betting she's not feeling real friendly toward me right now."

"You'd like her to come after you. In your place, I'd want the same. But that's not likely to be her next move, is it?"

"No, not likely. Kill me, the whole thing's finished. She's given me gifts, and I just haven't appreciated them properly."

"If we equate the two murders as giving you something—which hasn't been fully appreciated," Roarke considered, "it follows that now she'll want to take something away."

"Yeah." And something would be someone she cared about. "I'm going to tag some people before I get down to things."

"I'll just copy that morphing program." He did so, with a couple of quick clicks. "And send it to the lab. I may be able to add to it."

"For the case or for the game?"

He smiled, brushed a fingertip over the dent in her chin. "I can do both, Lieutenant. Why don't we say pie and coffee a bit later?"

"That works. If you've got time, Feeney had this other angle. Geek angle," she added, and laid out the search-and-match idea.

"All right, I'll set it up. It won't be quick."

"He said the same."

Alone, she started down the list. It made her feel better, just to touch base, to repeat the need for caution. Better yet, everyone she contacted was in for the night.

Really, who wanted to go out in the bitter the night before New Year's Eve?

That's the night she had to worry about, she decided. When so many she knew and cared about would be out at some party, some shindig.

She didn't think her killer would take someone in public. But what better time to get into a target's empty place, lie in wait?

If she didn't have the suspect in a cage by the eve, she'd set up some sort of surveillance on potential targets' houses, apartments.

"But you're going for somebody tonight, aren't you? You missed last night. You have to make up for it. You had to run twice now, and once from your... bestie," she muttered, thinking of Mavis's term. "Hard on a girl's self-esteem. You need a win, and you need it bad."

Considering, Eve brought ID shots on screen.

Not Mavis, she decided, studying the official shot where Mavis had opted for a cotton-candy-pink poof of hair and electric green eyes. Low probability on Mavis and her family.

Same with Peabody and McNab, with Feeney—who looked as if he'd slept in the dung-brown suit and industrial-beige shirt. Too risky, at this point, to go for a cop, so she included all the cops in her division.

The Miras—now, that was a worry. She could count on Mira to be smart and careful, but she'd put an attempt on them in the high probability range. Even without the link to law enforcement—and she was sure the killer had one—anyone who'd read Nadine's book or seen the vid would know she had a particular link, personal and professional, with Dr. Charlotte Mira.

She also had an embarrassing little crush on Dennis Mira, but nobody knew about that. Mira would, Eve corrected, and felt foolish. Mira always knew.

But look at the guy, with his incredibly kind eyes and mussed-up hair and that absent smile that said he was thinking about something else altogether.

She considered contacting Mira again, impressing on her—again—that the killer might ditch the delivery guise now, go for a straight break-in using the master.

But the master wouldn't work, Eve reminded herself, and going over it all again edged over into nagging.

Nadine, same deal. High probability—the connection between her and Nadine was well known. Nadine Furst was nobody's fool, Eve thought, and had top-notch security on her building and her apartment.

Still, the memory of Nadine's abduction, of the previous attempt on her life two years before, flashed.

It would flash for Nadine, too, Eve decided. She'd take no chances.

Reo? Another concern. If the killer knew details of Eve's life—personal and professional—she'd know details of Reo's. The APA was smart, but she wasn't... tough. Not physically.

Morris? A hell of a lot smarter than a killer. Security decent, she mused, but not as good as it could be.

Louise and Charles. Good security on their home, but each of them worked, patients, clients. Anyone could walk into Louise's clinic, where the security sucked. Or book a session with Charles. High probability again, but not tonight, she determined. Smarter to try at the clinic, or to pose as a client for Charles. Daytime hit there, most likely.

Unless the killer lured Louise out of the house, medical emergency. The clinic or her mobile medical service.

Shit.

And there was Trina. Not exactly a friend, more of a personal thorn in the side, but a connection. One who posed for official ID as if she wore a flaming tower on her head—fiery red with hot gold tips.

"And she can be stupid," Eve mused.

She'd barely closed a case she'd caught because Trina had done the stupid.

An e-mail blast, Eve decided. That wasn't like nagging, it was just putting it all down so everyone had it right in front of them.

She settled down to it, tried to think of a way to write it out that didn't seem like nagging.

While she did, the killer poured out her own thoughts in words.

I'm hurt. In my body, in my heart, in my soul. I'd nearly forgotten this kind of pain. Not the bruises, ones I discovered after I'd gotten home, tried to calm myself with a warm bath. I never felt them, but must have gotten them from hips and elbows while running through the crowd on the street, or from carts and counters in the restaurant.

She chased me, as if she were the hunter and I some sort of prey.

When I saw her in front of Mavis's building, for one instant—here then gone—I thought, I actually thought: Oh, at last, we can talk face-to-face, we can sit down, have a drink, talk and talk about our partnership.

Finally, she'll tell me what I mean to her, how important I am to her instead of it always, always, ALWAYS, being me who tells her.

But I knew, in the instant after that instant, it was never to be. What I saw on her face wasn't appreciation, wasn't friendship. It was feral. Hunter. Prey.

I've been a fool, letting myself believe she cared about me, respected me, appreciated all I've done for her.

She's like all the rest. Worse than all the rest.

I balanced scales for her, I did what she secretly wanted to do—and I know she wanted those scales balanced—and when it came down to it, she cared more about Mavis than me.

What has that ridiculous woman ever done for Eve?

Could it be, and how I hate to think it, that Eve values fame and wealth more than justice? Look who she married—a man everyone knows broke countless laws in his lifetime, but has enough money, enough power, to keep justice at bay.

And Mavis, there's fame and fortune—and another shady past.

Is this what drives Eve after all?

I can't bear to believe that.

Yet now I wonder.

She preened for the cameras today, didn't she? Looking through those cameras at me, into me. But not as a friend, not as a partner. But as someone who used my good work for her own gain. Who would destroy the only person, truly the only person, who held her best interest above all else.

Have I lost her? This pain in my heart, this drumming in my head, it feels like loss. It feels too familiar, too unspeakable.

I know what has to be done now. This very night.

She must lose. She must pay a price. Scales to balance.

Will we come closer to each other when she feels something of what I feel? Will she look at me, at last, and really see me?

I pray our bond can be repaired, and I pray she comes to understand our bond was forged and will only hold strong in death.

···

As Eve had done, the killer brought images onto her main screen. And studied them one by one.

Delia Peabody, Charlotte Mira, Nadine Furst, Mavis Freestone, Li Morris, Cher Reo, Charles Monroe, Louise DiMatto, Ryan Feeney, Ian McNab, Jamie Lingstrom, Lawrence Summerset. Roarke.

Friends, partners, mate.

Wasn't it time Eve understood she only had one friend, one partner? And really, at the core, one mate? All of these, all, were distractions, obstacles to the only relationship that should matter.

Still, until now the indulgence of these distractions had been tolerated. Out of friendship, out of affection and an unselfish generosity.

But real friendship was truth, and Eve had to learn and accept truth. So one by one they would be eliminated.

Time to pick the first.

It only took calling up files to have data, already researched, already accumulated, scrolling. Habits, haunts, other connections, routines, and histories.

Eyes tinted the color of good whiskey, eyes the same shade as the ones in the countless photographs of Eve that covered the wall, read the data carefully.

Those eyes were shrewd, intelligent, and crazed.

···

Eve had her feet up on the desk, the chair kicked back, and her eyes closed when Roarke came in. Galahad lay belly down on her desk, staring at her.

Not sleeping, he thought. Thinking.

Rather than interrupt whatever train she was riding, he moved into the kitchen, programmed fresh coffee, split the large slab of pie. And to reward the cat for being on guard, added a couple of mouse-shaped feline treats.

"Nadine or Mira," Eve said, eyes still closed when he set the coffee down on her desk.

"As next target?"

"It's what makes best sense, and Nadine edges out Mira if it's a night hit. She lives alone. Might have company at any time, sure, but she'd watch for that. Especially watchful after Hastings."

She opened her eyes now, watched as Galahad inhaled the little cat cookies as if they'd been air. Wisely, Roarke gave him a nudge off the desk before he set down the pie, or it might have met the same fate.

"You could maybe check my work here," she told Roarke. "I've set up a search and match, NYPSD database. Cops, support staff, lab, morgue, all crime scene personnel, including the cleaners contracted to swipe down a crime scene after we clear it. If I don't hit anything on this, I'll expand to relatives of same. Could be. Thinking about running another on applicants to the Academy, forensics, morgue, and so on. We've gone through the most direct lines there. So using McNab and Yancy's best guess, I'm trying it again."

"Up," he said, and switched places with her.

He studied the search, the parameters she'd programmed, the images, the language.

"This would do it."

"Good, because it took me forever."

"I'm going to refine it with what I've done. It doesn't change much, but sharpens the edges a bit."

He paused the search, input her new data, ordered a realignment as she sampled the pie.

"You have sharper images?"

"Mmmm." He ordered them on screen while he restarted her search.

"Really?" Eve rolled her eyes as the first image scrolled on. He'd dressed the long-legged female with short mouse-brown hair in a sheer black lace bra and G-string, added a sassy, hip-shot stance.

"We make our own fun," he told her, then swiveled in the chair. Before she realized his intent, he snagged her hips, pulled her onto his lap. "Now, while the changes are subtle, I was able to calculate those ratios, and all the other bits and business you don't want to hear about. This is my most likely."

"You honestly think this homicidal lunatic wears trashy underwear?"

"Truthfully, I don't understand why women wear any other kind. However, whatever she wears under her clothes, I think this represents the best estimation, given all known data, on her body type, her general features, her coloring."

"Hair and eyes can change on a whim. Mavis's official ID—her latest one—has her with pink hair. She had blue hair tonight. Just as an example."

"It's rare anyone has Mavis's fluid style. Your UNSUB may certainly change those things, but I'd say this is her natural coloring—or close."

He kept one arm hooked lightly around Eve's waist, took a forkful of pie with his free hand. "It is good pie. Maybe a bit shy of damn good, but good all the same. It's possible her legs aren't this long, but again, given the best guess. She's tall—or tallish for a woman. Even considering lifts, she shouldn't be under five-eight. She's fast on her feet—kept ahead of you, and yes, darling, she had a strong lead, but you said she was fast. Most probably, long legs to go with the height. And again, fast, so unlikely she carries too much excess weight if any. Strong, likely good upper-body strength."

Because it was right there, he kissed the nape of Eve's neck. "She blends, would that be accurate?"

"I think yes. Not one to draw attention, very likely she keeps under the radar in her work. Smart—and maybe underappreciated, at least in her own mind."

"I'd assume she either disguises her attributes or has a slim body type. Serious curves draw attention. Those attracted to women notice serious curves. As you believe she's unattached and likely lives alone, a more curvaceous body would draw attention."

"She'd get hit on," Eve concluded.

"Playing the odds. Young, single female, add curvy. Going to the least common denominator? Impressive breasts impress."

"Tits aren't the only reason women get hit on or draw attention."

"No indeed, but they rank high. She's unlikely to be visually compelling. A pleasant enough face, most likely. As real beauty or someone overtly unattractive also draws attention. So... Computer, display image two."

Acknowledged. Displaying image two.

"Okay." Eve nodded, would have pushed up if Roarke hadn't held her in place.

The same body, face, coloring, hair, but wearing a dull gray suit, a little drab, a little dowdy, Eve supposed. And the sassy woman in the trashy underwear became ordinary.

"You wouldn't look twice at her on the street," Eve stated. "She'd blend into the scenery."

"And now. Computer, display image three."

Acknowledged. Displaying image three.

This time the image wore a bulky brown jacket, brown trousers, ski cap, boots.

"Yes!" Again, she started to push up, and again he kept her snuggled on his lap. "Come on. I've got to move."

"Don't I get a reward?"

She craned around, looked into those wild, amused eyes. "You got pie."

"The pie's nice, but the work, if I say so myself, is superior."

She couldn't argue, so she clamped her hands on his face, covered his mouth with hers, let some of the excitement of having a face—a strong potential—fire up the kiss.

"That's more like it," Roarke decided, and let her go.

"I'm going to send this to the wits, and to everyone on the list of potential targets. Ordinary sort of face, nothing stands out especially, but if it's close, if it is, and you had this in your head, you'd recognize her."

She turned to him. "Can you do a side-by-side, put the shades, the scarf on her? This image, just those additions."

"Of course."

In seconds, he had the dual images, split screen.

"It feels right, feels close."

She closed her eyes, froze the moment when she'd looked across the street—the distance, the big bus lumbering away from the stop.

Take the bus away, all the vehicles, she ordered herself. Just her. Just you, just her, facing each other. She fixed the moment in her mind, one isolated instant, then opened her eyes.

"The face is broader—still narrow, but not quite this narrow. Can you..." She trailed off as he was already making the adjustment. "Not that much, a little... Yeah, that's better. Long legs, right on that. The coat today was down at her knees, but there was some length between the coat and the boots."

She closed her eyes again, tried to bring it back. The chase, tried to edit out all the people, the noise, the movement.

"She kept the box under her arm. Can't say what was in it, can't judge the weight, but she kept it tucked in, like a running back with the ball heading toward the goal. Shoving with the other hand," Eve added, making the motion herself. "Pushing, shoving, elbow jabbing, but never slowing down. Focused. Okay."

She opened her eyes again, turned. "She knew that restaurant. Goddamn it, that wasn't just luck. She was hauling her ass right there, knows the neighborhood, knew she could jump in there, make that end run toward the kitchen and out. She's been in there before."

"Scoping out Mavis's area?"

"That, sure, that. But she's been in that place, knew the setup. No need to know that to scope out Mavis. We'll get the image over there, show the owners, the staff. Maybe somebody knows her."

She came back for her coffee.

"You lived there," Roarke pointed out. "In that building, only a couple blocks away from that restaurant."

"It wasn't there, not with those people when I... She's tuned into me. That's my old neighborhood. I got that place because it was close enough to Central to make it smooth. Not a long haul to the morgue, to the lab."

"Why wouldn't she do the same?" Roarke proposed. "If she works in any of those facilities, or wishes she did, if she's obsessed with you, why not live in the same area you did? Walk the same sidewalks, eat and drink and shop where you did."

"She could've run into the Chinese place, but it has a different setup—it's narrow and it doesn't have that little alley off the back like the bar. She had enough of a lead to keep going, and yeah, yeah, get across the next intersection, maybe gain some distance if I got hung up with the traffic again. But she swung around that corner, never hesitated. She aimed for it."

She sat on the desk. "Plug it in, will you? You're faster. Narrow the search. Let's see if we can find somebody who meets this basic description who lives within a six-block radius of my old building."

"It's a lot of ground," he told her as he made the adjustments. "And unlikely to get quick results."

"Results works well enough for now. I'm going to use the auxiliary, get the image out."

"Take your pie," he suggested.