2

 Hard to say, Eve thought as she finally headed home, if notifying next of kin was worse in person or over the ’link. Either way, she had just sliced Ellissa Wyman’s parents in two, face-to-face, and had done the same to Brent Michaelson’s daughter, who was in Philadelphia on business, via ’link. Their lives would never be the same. Death changed everything, she knew, and murder added a bloody smear to the change. She had to cut through the grief—it blurred focus. No enemies, no threats, no trouble. No bitter exes, no big piles of coveted money. At this point, it appeared the three victims had been ordinary, law-abiding people. Wrong place, wrong time. But why those three—two of them regulars to the rink? Out of the dozens and dozens there, why those three? There was always a reason, she reminded herself. Even if the reason was bat-shit crazy. She toyed with reasons as she turned through the gates, started down the winding drive toward home. Lowenbaum’s remark broke through her theorizing. Dallas Palace? Seriously? Is that how some of the cops saw it? Maybe it did look something like a castle (was that the same thing as a palace?) with its grand stone walls catching the first glints of winter’s bright stars. It had towers and turrets, and with the white expanse of snow, the ice shimmering on denuded branches of trees, maybe it looked like something out of another time. Another world. But that was Roarke’s doing. He’d built it—his personal fortress in the heart of the city. And maybe it had impressed and intimidated the crap out of her at first—and for a while after. But now? It was home. Where fires would be burning, where the man she loved would look at her in a way that showed her, in an instant, she mattered. Where a cat would rub against her legs in greeting. Where, she thought as she parked at the front entrance, Summerset would loom in the foyer like a ghoul. Like he expected her to trail mud and blood over the pristine floors. And, okay, maybe she had, more than once. But not today. She checked her boots as she got out of the car, just in case. Today she didn’t have time to give or receive any shit. She stepped in, and there he was—bony, black-suited, stonefaced, with the pudgy cat sitting at his feet. “Save it,” she said before he could lead with whatever insult he’d devised for the day. “I’ve got a cop coming in. Lowenbaum. Send him straight up.” “And will your guest be joining you for dinner?” She figured the silky tone took the place of the insult—though the question itself threw her off. “I . . .” What the hell time was it? She had to force herself not to check her wrist unit, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “He’s not a guest, he’s a cop. It’s work.” To get some of her own back, she walked around the cat rubbing against her legs, shrugged out of her coat, and tossed it over the newel post. “Naturally.” Ignoring him, she started up the stairs, the cat running behind her. She headed straight to her office, stopped short when she saw Roarke, leaning back against her desk. The man could stop her heart, then send it into full gallop. Just a look at him. They’d been married more than two years, she thought. Shouldn’t that ease off? Where was that in the Marriage Rules? But a man who looked like Roarke broke every rule. That absurdly beautiful face set off with the wild blue eyes of some Irish god, and the perfect poet’s mouth. The black hair, silkier than Summerset’s tone, tied back in work mode. The tall, lean length of him all in black—no tie or suit coat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow. So he’d been home, and working, for some time. Yeah, the look of him broke the rules, stopped the heart. But it was that instant, just that instant when those amazing blue eyes met hers that sent it into the gallop. In them lived love. Just that simple, just that extraordinary. “You’re just in time,” he said, the Irish sliding through the words. “I—for what?” He simply held out a hand. She walked to him, and the first thing he did was draw her in, his clever hands skimming up her back as he brushed his lips to hers. Home, she thought again, and the last few hours dropped down on her, had her wrapping around him, leaning in. Knowing she could, here she could lean and not lose what she was. “You caught one,” he murmured. “It’s the murders at Wollman Rink, isn’t it? I thought of you as soon as I heard the bulletin.” “Yeah. I just left the first victim’s parents and her fourteen-year-old sister smashed to bits.” “The most brutal part of a brutal job. I’m sorry for it.” “Me, too.” He tipped her face back, brushed those lips over her forehead. “You’ll tell me. I think a glass of wine first—there’ll be plenty of coffee later, but a moment to settle for now.” “Don’t really have one. Lowenbaum’s on his way over. I need him to look at the security disc. I need a consult. He’s SWAT,” she began. “Yes, I remember him, quite well, from the Red Horse investigation last year. Why him, particularly?” “They were laser strikes, one strike for each vic, and each one lethal. And I think they came from outside Central Park.” “Outside? I see.” Because he did, because he could, it relieved her of long explanations. “Maybe one of them was a specific target, the other two cover. Maybe I’ll find a connection linking the three of them. But . . .” She shook her head. “I need to set up my murder board, start the book.” “I can help you with that.” “Yeah, thanks. Maybe if you—” She turned, and once again her heart stopped. But not in a good way. On her wall screen lived a pink and purple nightmare. Pink walls with purple squiggles framed a room filled with worse. Some sort of S-shaped seat sat in the middle of it all, carrying pink squiggles on purple, and that mounded with pillows in every color, with dizzying designs. And fringe. A chair angled toward it—pink again, with big green dots, and— were those feathers? Feathers rising up from the back in a bright rainbow fan. Under the window—framed in more feathers—a bright green glossy table stood flanked by two pink chairs—purple dots. The table held a huge purple vase full of weird flowers. Her heart started up again with a sputter as she spotted a Ushaped workstation, candy pink with a purple border. “This can’t be real.” “Charmaine put it together as a joke.” Roarke shifted so he could cup Eve’s face in his hands. “Which we’d both have enjoyed more if you didn’t have murder on your brain.” “A joke.” “Designing what we’ll call the polar opposite of what you want and need in the remodel here.” “Opposite.” “Completely opposite. I’ll add when she sent this, and the three actual designs, she said she thought the shock of this would smooth the way to the others.” He smiled now, traced a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Let’s take a moment, just scan the others, and see if she’s right. Just a quick glance. Then you won’t worry I’ve nudged you into doing something you’ll hate.” “You couldn’t nudge me into that with a stunner on full. But I don’t know if—” “Computer, Design One, on screen. As I said when we talked about updating your space, nothing you don’t want.” She started to argue, then saw the image. One of quiet colors, simple lines—and what had turned her tide in the first place—a big, kick-ass command center. “Not a trace of pink—not a single feather or flounce,” Roarke said. “Design Two, on screen.” Stronger colors, but rich rather than bright. Maybe a few more curves, maybe a little plush on the seating, but not embarrassing. “And Design Three, on screen.” She thought this one hit between. The colors muted, a little more streamlined on the furnishings. “Better?” “Anything would be.” “You’ll look at them later, when you’ve not so much on your mind.” “Okay. Take it down, will you? I hear somebody coming. It must be Lowenbaum.” His cop, Roarke knew, would be mortified if another cop discovered her considering interior design. He ordered the images off as she went to the door to greet. “Lieutenant Lowenbaum,” Summerset said, then backed away. He came in grinning. She’d still term him frosty, but she got Peabody’s Cute-O-Meter scale. “Let me say wow, some place.” He glanced around, quiet gray eyes taking in every detail. “You ever get lost?” “Sometimes.” “I bet. Hey, Roarke.” “Lowenbaum.” “I just got here myself,” Eve said. “I haven’t set things up.” “No rush. Who’s this?” He crouched down to scratch the cat who’d prowled over to check him out. “Galahad.” “Oh, yeah, yeah, I heard the story. The cat tripped the asshole, saved your bacon. You took a hit.” “You heard the story?” “You take down a sitting U.S. senator, Dallas, the story goes around. Two different eye colors. Frosty.” “He’s a pretty good cat,” Eve told him as Galahad preened under Lowenbaum’s stroking hand. “More a dog man myself, but yeah, he’s a pretty good cat.” He straightened. “So.” “Would you like a beer, a glass of wine?” Eve frowned at Roarke’s invitation. “We’re working.” “Would a beer impair you, Lowenbaum?” A quick grin that came with a flash of dimples. “Not hardly, and I could go for one.” “As it happens we have a special brew, just arrived. Deputy Banner’s family brew,” Roarke told Eve. “As promised.” “The cop from Arkansas,” Eve explained. “Helped us bag those murdering lovebirds.” “Heard about that, too. Let’s have a home brew and see what you’ve got.” “Give me a sec.” Eve went to her desk as Roarke strolled into the adjoining kitchen. “Rink security disc. Peabody’s rounding up security from the rest of the park, but this shows all three strikes.” She plugged in the disc, gestured to the wall screen. “Run disc where cued, on screen. See the girl in red?” “Can’t miss her. She’s a beauty and she knows what she’s doing.” “Was, did.” Lowenbaum nodded at the screen as Ellissa took her last flight. Then his eyes flattened out at the next strike. And the third. “Run it again, cut the speed.” Roarke came back in, two brews hooked in one hand, a third in the other. He paused, watched the screen. “Okay, enhance the last strike, start a few seconds before, slow it more.” Eve ordered the enhancement, slowed the speed. Narrowed her eyes when she thought she caught the faintest flash. “Your shooter’s nest is east of the rink, and that kind of accuracy? He’s got serious training. That’s not luck. East of the rink and above.” “Above.” “ME should confirm that, unless I’m full of shit. Thanks,” he added to Roarke, took a beer. “I’m going to be surprised if general park security picks up anything. Even in New York, somebody’s going to notice somebody else climbing up a tree with a weapon, and I’m thinking higher anyway. Run it back, watch again.” “I thought I saw a flash, a red . . . glimmer.” “The beam. Sorry,” Roarke added. “No, you’re right.” Lowenbaum nodded approval as he continued to watch the screen. “A laser strike emits a beam. Hard to catch it, and it’s fast. You get this to the lab, they can clean it up more, bring it up more. But there.” Eve froze the image. “Yeah, I see it. And yeah, I can just make out an angle. East and above.” “My guess, even if this fucker climbed the park’s tallest tree, is tactical laser rifle.” “What’s the range on one of those?” “That’s going to depend on the weapon, and it’s sure as hell going to depend on the shooter. But if he’s good enough, equipped right? A mile and a half, two. Even more.” “A weapon like that? Has to be law enforcement or military. You can’t just pick one up at the local 24/7. Black market, maybe, a weapons runner, but that’s going to cost for one that’s not a piece of shit.” “Twenty large, easy,” Lowenbaum confirmed. “Even a licensed collector’s going to find one hard to come by—through legal means.” “A complicated process,” Roarke said, “but doable.” Eve turned to him. “You have one.” “Actually, three. A Stealth-LZR—” “You got an LZR?” Lowenbaum’s eyes shone like Christmas morning. “First man-portable laser rifle—pulse action. 2021 to ’23. Heavy, clunky, but a trained operator could strike a dime credit in just inside a mile.” “They’ve improved considerably since then. I have the Tactical-XT, such as your team would use, and a Peregrine-XLR.” “Shut up.” Lowenbaum pointed at Roarke. “You’ve got a Peregrine?” “I do.” “Those suckers are accurate for five miles, more in the right hands. They just released for military use last year. How did you . . .” Lowenbaum paused, took a sip of beer. “Don’t ask, don’t tell?” “All legal,” Roarke assured him. “Considerable finagling, but I’ve all the proper paperwork.” “Man. I’d love to see it.” “Of course.” “Really?” “What are the odds this shooter has something like that?” Eve began. “If he does, he could’ve taken the shot from goddamn Queens. I’d really like a look.” “You just want to play with the toys, but fine.” “We’ll take the elevator.” Roarke gestured. “You should have a look yourself,” Lowenbaum told Eve. “Get a gauge.” “I’ve seen your weapon, Lowenbaum. I’ve used a laser rifle a time or two.” “It’s more likely your shooter’s using a tactical—something in that range.” Lowenbaum stepped on the elevator with them. “Three strikes like that, in that time frame? You’ve got someone who’s got possession and training of a long-range laser rifle.” “Law enforcement, military—or former in either. I’ll get a list of collectors to add to that.” Eve stuck her hands in her pockets as the elevator opened outside the big secured doors of Roarke’s weapons room. Roarke laid his hand on the palm plate. When the doors opened, Lowenbaum let out a sound a man might make when seeing a naked woman. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Roarke’s collection was a history of weaponry. Broadswords, stunners, thin silver foils, muskets, revolvers, maces, blasters, machine guns, combat knives. The glass display cases held centuries of death. She gave Lowenbaum a minute to wander and gawk. “You and Roarke can play with all the shoot-it, stab-it, stun-it, and blow-the crap-out-of-it toys later. Right now . . .” She gestured toward the display of laser weapons. Obliging her, Roarke deactivated the locks, opened the glass, took out the Peregrine. She’d never seen it, or its like before. And admitted, to herself, she’d like to test it out. But she said nothing as Roarke took it from its place, offered it to Lowenbaum. “Is it charged?” “It’s not, no. That would be . . . breaking the rules.” And Roarke smiled. With a half laugh, Lowenbaum lifted the weapon—black as death, sleek as a snake—to his shoulder. “Lightweight. Our tacticals weigh in at five-point-three pounds. Add another eight ounces if you’re carrying the optimum scope. Spare batt’s another three ounces. This is what, three pounds and change?” “Three and two. It’ll sync with a PPC, or you can use its infrared.” Now Roarke opened the door, took out a palm-sized handheld. “This will read up to fifteen miles. Battery life is seventy-two hours, full use, though I’m warned it will start to heat up at about forty-eight if not rested. Recharges in under two minutes.” Lowenbaum lowered it, turned it over it his hands. “You try it out?” “I did. Packs a recoil, but I’m told they’re working on that.” “Hit anything?” “Simulation only. Rang the bell for me at a mile and a quarter.” With obvious regret, Lowenbaum handed it back to Roarke. “She’s a beaut. But here’s your more likely.” He gestured at the bulkier weapon on display. “A military- or police-issue tactical. They haven’t changed much in the last five or six years. I’m going to say, high probability, he owns his weapon. It’s not something you take home after your tour like your service weapon. These are checked in and out, every incident. Most likely, again, for three strikes in that time frame, he had it on a bi- or tripod. Moving targets, and the first strike? She was moving at a good clip. Strike from one of these from a distance of—say a mile? It takes two and a half seconds to go from weapon to target. There’s wind speed to consider, but that’s about what you’ve got.” “You have to build that into the shot. Distance, wind speed, angle —speed of movement of the target.” Eve nodded. It told her the shooter had watched his targets for a while, judged their relative speed on the ice. “I never used a bipod—or not since weapons training. How much weight there, how big?” “A couple pounds, and you can scope them down to under a foot.” “The rifle breaks down, right?” “Sure.” He glanced at Roarke. “I can show you.” Roarke took it down, offered it to him. Lowenbaum checked the charge gauge, noted it was empty, but flicked the down switch anyway. “Safety first,” he said. Then he turned a small lever, separated the barrel, the charger, the scope, and had the weapon in four compact pieces in about ten seconds. “You could fit it into a standard briefcase broken down,” Eve observed. “Correct, but if you have any respect for your weapon, you have a case with molded slots for the parts.” “It wouldn’t get through security in a government building, a museum, that kind of public building.” “Not a chance,” Lowenbaum said. “Okay, so most likely an apartment building, a hotel, a retail or rental space of some kind.” She wandered, thinking, as Lowenbaum competently reassembled the weapon. “Who’s best at this sort of reconstruction at the lab?” she asked. “It’s going to be Dickhead,” Lowenbaum said. “Come on, does it have to be?” They called the chief lab tech Dickhead for a reason. “It does. You give him the push, I’ll work with him when I can.” “I won’t turn that down. Thanks.” “No thanks needed, because unless I’m way off, Dallas, you’ve got yourself an LDSK.” “An LDSK?” Eve turned to Roarke. “Long-distance serial killer.” “Cops,” he murmured. “Who else would have the acronym at hand?” “Wouldn’t need one if people weren’t so fucked-up. Who do you know who could make those three strikes?” Lowenbaum puffed out a breath. “I could. I’ve got a couple guys on my team who could. And yeah, I get you need to run them, but there’s no way. I know a few other guys, and I’ll make you a damn list. I’m going to say I know a few who could make the strikes. I don’t know anybody who would.” “Names would help anyway.” A “And it could be a pro, Dallas. You can pull up a list there as easy as I can.” “I will. But who’d hire a pro to kill a part-time student/part-time barista—female vic. An OB/GYN—vic two. A high school history teacher?” “People are fucked-up,” Lowenbaum reminded her. “Yeah, they are.” “You’re the murder cop. You do what you do there, and I’ll do what I can on the tactical end. Three strikes like that?” The way he shook his head transmitted both admiration and concern. “The shooter’s feeling pretty fine right now.” “And feeling pretty fine, he’ll want to feel pretty fine again.” — fter Lowenbaum left, Eve set up her murder board, then sat to put together her notes and observations. “You’ll eat,” Roarke said—firmly. “Yeah, whatever.” “It’s the stew you like.” He solved the issue by pulling her out of her desk chair. “You can eat and think, and tell me what you know or what you think.” It helped when she did—and the stew thing smelled really good. “You know, before I caught this, I was in my office thinking, Hey, quiet evening at home. A little wine, a little dinner, maybe a vid, a little sex.” Because he knew how much coffee she’d drink in the next few hours, he pushed her water glass toward her. “We’ll fit some of that in, won’t we?” “The girl, Ellissa Wyman. I already had the gut feeling, but as soon as I reviewed the security feed, I knew. The way she flew. Had to be high impact, and nobody on the rink or around saw anything. You don’t get off three streams without somebody seeing something. You sure as hell don’t get them off when a cop reviews the tape, byte by byte, and sees nothing. The odds of me finding where those strikes initiated? I wouldn’t bet on me.” He reached over, covered her hand with his. “I would.” “Yeah, but you’re rich, and soft on me. I’m hoping Lowenbaum can help narrow down the area, but even then . . .” She shook her head, ate. The stew tasted every bit as good as it smelled. “The girl? Nineteen, lived at home. Solid middle class. No current boyfriend. Ex is in college in Florida. No animosity between them. In fact, they tried the long-distance thing for almost a year before they drifted apart. Still friendly. She dates a little, but nothing serious. Skates for the joy of it, hoping to join a troupe—started when she was about eight, and fell in love. She’s a regular at the rink, so I have to consider her as a specific target.” “She stood out,” Roarke said. “Her grace, the look of her.” “Yeah, she did. Can’t say the same about the first male: Brent Michaelson. Ordinary-looking guy, nothing flashy. But he’s another regular. Not as often as the girl, but regular, routine. Divorced, but years ago. Civil relationship with the ex-wife. Tight with the daughter, enough that they’d all get together for dinner at the ex-wife’s for birthdays and holidays—no drama. He liked to take his grandkids skating now and then. He’s skated for years, nothing fancy. Said it helped him keep in shape, helped reduce stress.” “And the last?” Roarke said. “The one who was killed while holding his wife’s hand.” “Yeah. You pay attention. Today’s their anniversary. Five years. They were re-creating their first date. Some people knew they were going to the rink, but from what I can gather not many—it was more a personal thing. And what time they’d be there wasn’t laid out.” “You see him as random. They all may be, but you’re more certain he was. If one of the others was specific, then potentially two of them were no more than cover, so all would appear random.” “I think all or two out of three. I have to hope for two out of three, because then it’s done. Or probably done. Like Lowenbaum said, the shooter’s feeling pretty fine. More, if one is target specific, I’ll damn well find out who and why. But if all three were pulled out of a damn hat . . .” “If it was all random, why the rink?” He thought like a cop, but since he was being so helpful, she wouldn’t insult him by mentioning it. “Public, big impact. Media frenzy. That would be a high motive for an LDSK. Maybe he has a problem with the rink itself. Maybe his wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever, dumped him there. Maybe he used to skate but sustained an injury so he’s pissed at skaters.” She brooded over it—so many maybes. “She’s pregnant. The wife of the third vic. She just found out, hadn’t even told him yet. Was going to tell him over the first-date lunch re-creation.” Roarke let out a sigh. “The ripples go on and on, don’t they? It’s never just the victim, just the dead, you stand over. It’s also those they leave behind.” “Her father’s Irish—a little more of an accent than you, but just a little. I think he and the ex have the civil, but I doubt they have holiday meals together, you know? But they were a unit around the daughter. And he—the father—stayed back with me for a minute, talked about his son-in-law. You could see he loved him. “It matters,” she said, reaching for her water, “because I think he’s going to be the least of it. If one of the others was target specific, he’ll be the least. An afterthought.” “Not for you, Eve.” “She was first. The girl in red. Couldn’t miss her, like Lowenbaum said. Wouldn’t you take out the target first, make sure you did the job? Part of me leans there. But then, I think, how cocky are you, you bastard? And it seems to me somebody who can do this, who does this, that’s plenty cocky.” “So you bookend the target—one before, one after.” “Just another maybe.” “How can I help?” She looked over at him. “You were working when I got home.” “No, actually, I’d just finished what I was doing when those designs came through. I was looking at them a second time when you came home. I’ve nothing I need to do.” He took her hand again. “I’m sorry for the wife, the parents, and all the other ripples. But it’s the girl, that girl in red, who’ll haunt me for a while. She had such joy on her face, such freedom in her movements. He ended that. I’d like to help you find who ended that.” Home, she thought again. Him. Where she could lean and not lose who and what she was. W “Collectors. Of the tactical, since Lowenbaum figures most likely there, but of anything that could make those strikes from outside the park.” “That’s easy enough. Give me something a bit more challenging.” “Okay. Buildings, east of the park, let’s say between Fifty-Seventh and Sixty-First. All the way back to the river. We’ll eliminate any with solid screening. It’s going to be a long enough list. And Lowenbaum said above, so buildings over four floors. We can jog that up or down if they can pinpoint angles more closely.” She ate more stew, cocked her head. “How many of them do you figure you own?” He picked up his wine, smiled. “Won’t it be interesting to find out?” — ith Roarke in his adjoining office, Eve settled down to the routine that was never really routine. Running backgrounds on the victims and witnesses, on staff, running probabilities. She wrote up a comprehensive report, read it over, added more. Then she sat back, fresh coffee in her mug, boots on her desk, and studied her board. Why only three? That stuck in her gut. The speed and accuracy said this shooter could have taken a dozen, or more, within minutes. If the motive, as the general rule applied to LDSKs, was panic and fear: Why only three? And why these three? The girl in red made a bright target. The color, her youth, her skill, her speed and grace. Maybe a specific target, but all those attributes leaned Eve toward of the moment. The third victim, part of a couple—and not regulars. Their plans to be on the ice on that day, at that time, not widely known outside a tight circle. Of the moment again. But the second victim. The obstetrician, the regular. That rink, that time, that day of the week habitual. If there had been a specific target, her personal probability index rated Brent Michaelson high. But it was a big if. All random? She rose with her coffee and circled her board, studied the positions of the bodies. Then why only three? “Computer, run crime scene security video, back one minute from cue-up.” Acknowledged . . . Leaning back on the desk, she watched the skaters, studied the three victims as they moved on the ice. Then the first hit, the second, the last. Some continued to skate for several more seconds, providing more targets. Others started to panic, rush, and stumble toward the exit, even over the wall. More targets. The two Good Samaritan medicals moved in, providing more targets, easier ones, she considered, than the three victims had been. But only three, only those specific three. The shit would hit, of course. The media would ring that gong and the killings would be top of the reports and stories for at least a few days. But take a dozen—kill or injure—that’s top story for weeks. That goes global. Three dead meant a good chunk of people would avoid the rink, so possibly a motive against the rink itself. If she’d been holding that laser rifle and had a hard-on against the rink, she might have taken the girl in red, another target, but then she’d have taken out one of the security staff and at least one of the medicals. “Three taken out,” she murmured, still watching the screen. “Organized, skilled, had to plan this out in advance. So three was the goal. No more, no less.” She stopped the screen, went back to her desk to read the background on the victims yet again. When Roarke sent her the list of collectors—in New York, all boroughs, and in New Jersey—with registered weapons that could have been used, she started backgrounds on all twenty-eight of them, searched for connections to the three victims, or the rink itself. With more coffee, she got halfway through the list before Roarke came out. “A collector’s license for a laser rifle—any make, model, or year— is twenty-five large.” “I’m aware.” “Most of the licenses I’ve been through are to rich dudes. A couple so far grandfathered from a relative. The screening’s pretty thorough, but that doesn’t mean your average violent offender doesn’t slip through.” “A problem in all areas of life.” Bypassing the coffee, Roarke opted for two fingers of whiskey. “I’ve got your buildings.” “Already?” “The longest part of the process was designing a program that met the criteria. After that?” He shrugged, sipped. “You designed a program?” About half the time, she thought, she could barely operate a program without getting pissed off. “I did. An interesting experiment.” “E-geeks are handy. You have the list of potential buildings?” “I am, and I do. But I thought you’d like a visual. When your office is redone, we’ll be able to do this via hologram, but for now . . .” He set down his whiskey and gestured for her to stand, took her place, tapped some keys. A slice of Manhattan flashed on screen. “These are the boundaries you gave me, from the crime scene back to the river, with the north and south streets. And here . . .” He tapped another set of keys, and buildings began to fade away. “Okay, okay, I get it. High-security buildings eliminated. Excellent.” “And buildings under four stories.” “Right. So these building remaining are potential nests. I need—” “There’s more.” Because he was quick, and she was focused on the screen, he had her pulled into his lap before she could object. “Working, ace.” “So am I. What you see are buildings with a reasonably clear sight line to the targets. But—” Keeping an arm around her waist, he keyed in some more. Several other buildings faded off. “I eliminated those with mid- to high-level security. You might need to factor those in at some point, as there are always ways around security, but for now, those remaining are zero to low-level. Apartments, mid-range hotels, SROs, and flops, your occasional studio for dance or art classes or what have you, a couple of office spaces.” “With low-level available, why risk high? But yeah, better to have them on tap if nothing else pans out. If I could—” “Still more.” With another tap, thin blue and red lines flashed on. “The blue is your possible—windows or rooftop of these buildings. Red is high probability, again factoring in your theory with Lowenbaum, from the east, low-security building.” She started to rise to her feet to get a closer look, but got pulled back down. And considering all, relaxed into it. “The program contains an algorithm, utilizes your crime scene footage, with calculations built in for the wind speed, temperature, probable velocity and angle, and . . . more math and calculations than you want to hear about.” “You built a program that factors the variables with the known, and gives visual probabilities.” “In simple terms, more or less.” “You’re not just handy. This is e-genius level.” “Modesty doesn’t prevent me from agreeing. Actually, it was an interesting bit of work.” A lot of buildings—a hell of a lot, she considered. But also a hell of a lot less than she’d had to consider a couple hours before. So she hooked an arm around his neck, shifted enough to look at him. “I bet it’s not free.” “Darling, your appreciation is all the payment I need.” “And sex.” “I thought they were one in the same.” Smiling, he kissed her. “This probably rates appreciation sex.” But for now, she shifted again, studied the screen. “How about the buildings with high probability that also have privacy screens—standard.” “Ah, clever girl. You’d hardly want some passerby or gawking tourist with a camera catching you poised with a weapon in a window.” “And working windows. Why shoot through glass? Why have to cut through glass—unless the LDSK used his own office or home window. That leaves a trail to follow.” “Give me a minute. No, I can work around you very well,” he said when she started to get up again. “Though your new command center will simplify this as well.” He programmed the new parameters manually, and quickly, in a way she’d never comprehend, then ordered the new results on screen. “That took out five more—or six maybe. How many do—” “Wait for it. Computer, split screen with identifying data on current display.” Acknowledged. Working . . . “So I’ll be able to do this holographically?” “You will, or I will until you get the hang of it.” “I know how to holo.” More or less. “Even with this setup.” “Simpler and advanced from what you can do now from here or, from my standpoint, at Central. And there you are.” She had addresses and the types of buildings. And with each building address were the floors that fit the criteria. The tally was twenty-three buildings. “I can work with twenty-three. And if this leads me to the nest, you can count on extreme appreciation sex.” “Would that include costumes and props?” She rolled her eyes. “It hasn’t led me anywhere yet.” “Perhaps a small advance.” He nipped lightly at the back of her neck. “Get your brain off sex.” “That would be beyond my programming capabilities. But until I collect my fee, you’ll want to cross-search the licenses, and the victims, with the twenty-three buildings.” “Just exactly right. Before I do that, let me ask you this: You’re an LDSK—organized, skilled, controlled.” “You assume controlled?” “Three vics only. Literally dozens who could have been killed or injured—making a bigger impact, giving a bigger thrill. If impact and thrill are motives. So yeah, I assume controlled. Whether or not these three, or any of these three, are target specific: Would you use your own home—your apartment, even your office—as your nest?” “Interesting question.” He picked up his whiskey again to mull it over. “The advantage there would be time. You’d have all the time in the world to observe the target area from that nest. Complete privacy, and the opportunity to take any number of dummy test strikes from the position.” “Huh. Hadn’t thought of the last one yet, but it applies. Practice, and practice from the exact spot. It weighs. Disadvantages?” “Clever cops, such as my own, diligently working through the potentials. Risking that clever cop making a connection. And an office? Unless it’s merely a front, most would have others working there, at least an assistant, building cleaning crew, and so on. Residence? Does your killer live alone, does whoever he might live with join in his desire to kill? “I’d be more inclined to rent a space under an assumed name— which takes a bit of work,” he added, “but would be worth it. That office space, small apartment, hotel room. Then after this was done, abandon it.” “So would I.” She nodded, as her thought process had run along the same lines. “Can’t rule out the other, but so would I. I’d trade the convenience of operating out of my own space for the lesser risk of using a temporary space. Hotels, work or living spaces leased within the last six months. He’s controlled, but I can’t see him using a rented space for longer. Okay.” Roarke held her in place another moment, then released her. “Why don’t you do that cross-search. I’ll do the other.” She rose, as did he, but she turned to him. “When this office thing happens, you could work in here on this kind of thing, if you wanted. Take the cop stuff out of your own space.” “I don’t mind the cop stuff in my space.” “I know. We’ll add that into the appreciation sex. I’ll look at the designs again when I finish this, pick one.” “If one suits.” “Yeah, if that.” She manned her desk again, solo, began the cross-search. While it ran, she managed to figure out how to send Peabody the complicated program Roarke had written and implemented in under two hours. She imagined fellow e-geek McNab would do a happy dance. After adding an update, she went into the kitchen to program more coffee, reminding herself that space would change, too. No need to hold on to the old, she told herself. And in reality, even the old had changed, since Mavis and Leonardo had her old apartment. Nothing about it looked like the Spartan and basic cop place she’d lived in, not with all the color, the clutter, the kid. The kid. When Bella blipped into her mind, she remembered the party. She had to go to a baby birthday party, where surely there would be more babies. Crawling or walking in that drunk way they did, making those weird noises. Staring like dolls. Why did they do that? She shook the thought away, got her coffee, went back to murder. The incoming from Roarke signaled moments before he came back. “Hotels, including an SRO flagged for you, and several rentals in the last six months. I’ve put those rented to families with children and multiple-use office spaces or with staff over three on low.” “You ran occupants?” “That would’ve been next, wouldn’t it?” “Yeah. I’ve got a couple matches, but they don’t ring. A guy from the license list who has an aunt in one of the buildings—but she’s on a lower floor than works here. Plus, he’s got no military or police training, doesn’t actually appear to have any weapons training. We’ll check him out, but this isn’t our guy.” Leaning back in her chair, she picked up her coffee, propped up her boots in her think-it-through mode. “The other’s got a big residential on Park, does some designer hunting. It doesn’t strike—not much skill from my background check, but he could have downplayed that. But added to it, he lives with wife number three, has a live-in nanny for the kid with wife number three, and a teenage son from wife number two lives with him half the time. Full-time housekeeper—not a droid. Still, I bet he has a private space in his digs, so we’ll check.” She dropped her feet, pushed back. “No criminal to speak of on either. And no connection I could find to the rink or the victims.” Rising, she approached her board. “If this wasn’t his mission, just this, he’ll hit again and soon. Three strikes, three down. It’s too successful not to hit again. Not the rink, that’s done—unless it is the rink.” “You think, and I agree, if it were the rink, there would be more than three on your board.” “Yeah, that’s what I think. Another public place, another multiple strike. If that’s the plan, he’s already got it selected, scoped, and has his nest. Anyone, anywhere, anytime. He’s holding the cards now.” “You’ve plenty of your own.” “But I can’t add more to them tonight, not with what’s here. Morris, Berenski, they might add more tomorrow. Peabody and McNab are working their end. I’ll get a profile from Mira, see if that refines things. It’s not a pro.” She narrowed those cop’s eyes at the board again. “A pro doesn’t take out three unrelated targets, and they’re not connected. Correction, a working pro doesn’t. We could have a pro who’s gone loony, but this wasn’t murder for hire—or unlikely. Client could have paid to have three hits, with two as cover. Can’t disregard even that.” “Lieutenant, you’re circling.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She took one long last look at the girl in red. As Roarke said, she haunted. “Okay. Let’s have another look at the design stuff.” “You don’t have to do that tonight.” “It’ll bug me until I clear it. How hard can it be to just pick something?” “You’re a rare woman, darling, as you not only actually believe that, but make it true.” He called the first design on screen. “I don’t much like this one. The colors are kind of girlie, and the stuff’s sort of . . . I don’t know, sharp and . . . slick. So plain it’s fancy. I don’t know the word, but that’s how it hits. I mean, the setup’s okay —where she’s got things—but the things are going to make me feel like I’m in somebody else’s place.” “Then we move on. Number two.” She shifted her feet as she studied it. Felt stupid and ungrateful. “The stuff here’s okay. It doesn’t have that I’m-new-and-cutting-edgeand-really-important deal going on. I could work here without feeling like somebody whose name begins with Summerset would give me the fish eye if I messed it up or spilled something.” “But?” “Well, the colors are strong. Strong colors are good, I guess, but it’s a little in-your-face. Distracting, I guess.” “How about these?” He brought up the third option. She didn’t know what fancy name the colors went by in some designer speak. Bullshit names like Contented Fawn and Zen Retreat and Chocolate Drizzle. To her it was browns and sort of greens and whites that weren’t bright and shiny. “Yeah, see, the colors are good, and they’re quiet but not girlie. They’re not saying, Hey look at me. It’s more like they’ve been there awhile. And the command center looks, well, commanding. No bullshit. But, I guess, most of the other stuff doesn’t look like anybody lives with it.” “Try this.” He stepped over to her computer, keyed in a code. The second design slid on—with the color scheme from the third. “Huh. You can just . . . Okay, yeah, this is . . .” “If you’re not sure, not pleased, we wait. I’ll give her your input and she’ll incorporate what you like and take away what you don’t.” “It’s just that . . . I like it. I really like it, and I didn’t expect to. The stuff doesn’t look as, I don’t know, fussy in these colors like it does in the in-your-face ones. It looks more . . . real, I guess. I like it. I figured I’d live with the one I could live with, and that would be okay. But I like it. It’s efficient, it’s not fussy or weird.” Sincerely baffled, she turned to him. “I like it. Jesus, the appreciation sex is going to get out of hand.” “My fondest wish.” Hip-to-hip with her, he studied her choice, and found himself pleased he liked it, very much, as well. Still. “Do you want to take a few days, think it over, make any changes that might occur to you?” “No. Really no. It would make me crazy. Let’s just go for it. But I can’t have this place torn up or people running around in there when I’m working an investigation.” “Leave that to me.” He turned to her, took her shoulders, dropped a kiss on her forehead. “This will be good for both of us.” “I know that, too. I won’t miss it. I remember how I felt when you first brought me in here, when I saw what you’d made for me. That doesn’t change.” “The reason I made it for you doesn’t change, either.” He slid an arm around her waist, led her out. “Hopefully you remember how you felt the first time I took you into the bedroom.” “That’s imprinted.” “Good, as she’ll have designs for the bedroom for us to go over in a day or two.” “You were serious about that?” “Absolutely.” “But the bedroom—” “Is ours, but was designed for me. Now it will reflect both of us, our needs, wants, tastes.” “We don’t have the same tastes, exactly. I don’t even know if I have tastes.” “You know what you like, what you don’t. And won’t it be interesting to see how it all melds? And as with your office, it has to suit you. It has to suit me as well, so may it take a bit more work than the two minutes you spent picking your office design.” It wouldn’t take two minutes, no, not with Roarke weighing in on it. “Are we going to fight over, like, fabric?” “I sincerely doubt it, but if we do, I’m sure we’ll make up, on whatever bed we choose together.” Frowning, she stepped into the bedroom, looked at the enormous bed on its platform under the sky window. And couldn’t imagine anything that could suit her more. “I like that bed.” “And we may end up designing around it, but if not, we should bid it farewell as we did your desk. In anticipation.” “The way you are, we’ll have nailed each other another five dozen times on this one before it’s gone.” “Think of it as an undress rehearsal,” he said, and scooped her up. Since it was hard to laugh and protest at the same time, she just went with it, so when she hit the bed, she wrapped her legs, boots and all, around him. “We’re still dressed.” “I can fix that. In a minute,” he added, and took her mouth. Here was the payoff for a long and difficult day. His body pressed down on hers, that magic mouth sparking heat, spreading thrills. No dark thoughts pressing like bloody fingers against glass, pushing, pushing to come in. Here, she could have, she could take, love. She heard the click as his fingers—as magical as his mouth— released her weapon harness. She shifted so he could tug it off, shove it aside. “You’re disarmed, Lieutenant.” “That’s not my only weapon.” “I’m aware. But I’ve a few of my own.” When his teeth scraped lightly down the side of her neck, she thought: Yeah, you do. In response, she pressed up, center to center. “And yours is, as usual, already cocked.” Against her skin, his lips curved. “Someone has her punny pants on.” “I’m thinking about trading them in for naked.” She managed to toe off her boots, the rise and fall of her hips with the effort pleasing them both. Rather than pull her sweater off, he slid his hands under it, skimmed them over the tank she wore beneath. When her nipples hardened against the snug material, he roamed down to unhook her belt, then up again to mold her breasts, to tease. Down to unclasp a button, to slowly, slowly ease the zipper open. He could spend years on her with just his hands. The firm breasts and long, lean torso under the thin, simple tank, the taut belly, the narrow hips. He tugged her trousers down, just another inch, traced a fingertip under the waistband of the panties—as simple as the tank. His cop wasn’t one for frills and lace. Yet those simple, unadorned underpinnings never failed to entice him. He knew what lived beneath. Just as he knew she’d relaxed, she’d put all else aside—the blood and the dead—for this. For him. For them. So he’d give her everything he had in this time away from the cold and the dark. Now he peeled her sweater up and away, and the tank with it. When he cupped her breasts in his hands, she cupped his face in hers. Smiled. “It’s nice.” “Nice, is it?” “Yeah.” Lowering her hands, she began unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s nice.” “I can do better than nice.” “I’m aware,” she said, making him laugh as his lips brushed over hers. She could do better than nice, too, but didn’t mind that pace. For now. Like sliding into comfort. Under his shirt, that tough, disciplined body was hers to touch, to take—all that warm, warm skin, those tight muscles. Hers to take, she thought again as he deepened the kiss. Fire kindled under her skin. With her legs again hooked around him, she levered over, reversed their positions. Now straddling him, she curved down, using her teeth to nip at his lips, his tongue while she rocked them both to quivering. Even as she tugged off his belt, he flipped her over again. Dragging off her trousers, his hand brushed over the clutch piece strapped above her ankle. It added a quick, dangerous thrill. Leaving it, he used his mouth, his hands to destroy her. She cried out, tossed up as his tongue swept over her, into her. Her fingers dug into the sheets, then into his back as he drove her relentlessly higher. The orgasm ripped through her, a fast, hard jolt of staggering pleasure. Then the aftershocks, shuddering, shuddering, even as he urged her up again. Breathless, blind, she dragged him up to her, rolling together now over the blue lake of the bed while she fought to strip away the rest of his clothes. When he plunged into her, the world quaked. His mouth—God, she loved his mouth—took hers again, ravishing like a man starving. Then he drove her, they drove each other, hands gripped together, bodies joined. On the edge, fused to the edge as the pleasure swelled to bursting. When she came again, all she could see was the wild blue of his eyes. After a long moment, after they both lay limp, like survivors of some brutal wreck, he turned his head enough to graze her throat with his lips. “Nice, was it?” “Worked for me. Appreciation?” “Paid in full.” “Huh. And no costumes or props.” “You’re still wearing your clutch piece.” Her eyes blinked open. “What?” “That worked for me.” On a half groan, he rolled off her, sat up. Letting his gaze wander over her as she sprawled, naked but for the fat diamond around her neck and the weapon at her ankle. “And would again.” “Men are just twisted.” He only smiled, then got up and fetched a bottle of water. After he drank, he held it out. “Hydrate.” She propped up on an elbow and did just that. But when she started to reach for her clutch piece, he took her hands. “Not quite yet.” “I’m not going to sleep wearing it.” “Not sleep.” Stretching out, he picked up her weapon harness. As he began to put it on her, she shoved out at him. “What the hell?” “Indulge my curiosity.” Quick and efficient, he hooked it on her, then pushed off the bed again to take a good long look. Propped on her elbows, a wonderfully baffled expression on her face, her eyes still glazed from sex, she stirred his heart. And propped on her elbows, a weapon on her ankle, another hitched over the shoulders of that lean and naked warrior’s body, she stirred something else entirely. “Yes, I’ve imagined that.” “You’ve imagined me wearing my weapons without a shirt? Or pants?” “I see now that even my exceptional imagination fell short. So, Lieutenant.” Her bafflement went to shock as he straddled her. “You’ve got to be kidding.” “Not even remotely.” He gripped her hands again, pinned her. “You can’t possibly . . .” She glanced down, saw he absolutely could. “How did you do that?” “It’s something to do with being twisted, I suppose.” When he thrust into her, she cried out, came instantly. “Oh my God.” “I want to watch you, my well-armed cop.” He thrust again, again. “Watch you while I take you, and take you, until we’re both empty.” He took her slowly down into the dark, drenching her, saturating her with sensation. He made her helpless, took her past the point of caring that she had no defenses. Into that dizzying desperate dark she slid, boneless, even as her body ached for more. In the dark, he plundered until she was empty. Until he let himself go and emptied into her.