"Perform it. Actually it was my idea," she continued, nearly losing it when he paled. "You've got a nice voice. In the shower, anyway. The Irish comes out. I mentioned it, and Jess thought it was fabulous."

He managed to shut his mouth, but it wasn't easy. Slowly he reached over to disengage the monitor. "Eve -- "

"Really, it would be great. Leonardo has a terrific design for your costume."

"For my -- " Thoroughly shaken, Roarke got to his feet. "You want me to wear a costume and sing a duet with Mavis? In public?"

"It would mean so much to her. Just think of the press we could get."

"Press." Now he blanched. "Christ Jesus, Eve."

"It's really a sexy number." Testing them both, she walked over, began to toy with the buttons of his shirt as she looked hopefully up into his eyes. "It could put her right over the top."

"Eve, I'm fond of her, really I am. I just don't think -- "

"You're so important." She trailed her finger down the center of his chest "So influential. And so... gorgeous."

It was just a little too thick. He narrowed his eyes, caught the laughter in hers. "You're putting me on."

Her laughter burst out. "You bought it. Oh, you should have seen your face." She pressed a hand to her belly, yelping when he yanked her ear. "I would have talked you into it."

"I don't think so." Not at all sure of himself, he turned away, started to reach for his coffee again.

"I could have. You'd have done it if I'd played it right." All but doubled over with laughter, she threw her arms around him, hugged herself to his back. "Oh, I love you."

He went very still as emotion delivered a hard, bruising punch to his heart. Shaken, he turned, gripped her arms.

"What?" The laughter died out of her face. He looked stunned, and his eyes were dark and fierce. "What is it?"

"You never say it." Swamped, he dragged her close and buried his face in her hair. "You never say it," he repeated.

She could do nothing but hold on, rocked by the emotions pulsing from him. Where had this come from? she wondered. Where had he hidden it? "Yes, I do. Sure I do."

"Not like that." He hadn't known how much he'd needed to hear her say it, just like that. "Not without prompting. Without thinking about it first."

She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. It was true, and it was foolish, cowardly. "I'm sorry. It's hard for me. I do love you," she said quietly. "Sometimes it scares me because you're the first. And the only."

He held her there until he was sure he could speak, then eased her back, looked into her eyes. "You've changed my life. Become my life." He touched his lips to hers, let the kiss deepen slowly, silkily. "I need you."

She linked her arms around his neck, pressed close. "Show me. Now."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Eve started off to work humming. Her body felt soft and strong, her mind rested. She took it as an omen when her vehicle purred to life on the first attempt, and the temperature control hung at a pleasant seventy-two degrees.

She felt ready to face her commander and convince him she had a case to pursue.

Then she got to Fifth and Forty-seventh and hit the jam. Street traffic was stopped, air traffic was circling like vultures, and no one was paying any heed to the noise pollution laws. The horns, shouts, curses, catcalls screamed out and echoed. The minute she stopped, her temperature control gleefully pumped up to ninety-five.

Eve slammed out of her car and joined the melee.

The glide-cart hawkers were taking advantage of the moment, slipping and sliding through the pack and doing a monster business on frozen fruit sticks and coffee. She didn't bother to flash her badge and remind any of them they weren't allowed the vend off the curbs. Instead, she snagged a vendor, bought a tube of Pepsi, and asked what the hell was going on.

"Free-Agers." Eyes shifting for more customers, he slid her credits into his safe slot. "Protest on conspicuous consumption. Hundreds of 'em, stretched across Fifth like a pretty ribbon. Singing. Want a wheat muffin to go with that? Fresh."

"No."

"Gonna be here awhile," he warned and stepped onto his cart to glide through standing traffic.

"Son of a bitch." Eve scanned the scene. She was blocked in on all sides by furious commuters. Her ears were ringing and heat was pumping out of her car like a furnace.

She slammed back in, beat on the control panel with her fist, and managed to knock the temperature down to a brisk sixty. Overhead, a tourist blimp trundled by, full of gawkers.

With no faith whatsoever in her vehicle, Eve rammed it into vertical lift and hit her official warning siren. The siren wheezed on, no match for the cacophony of noise, but she managed a shaky lift. Her wheels missed the roof of the car in front of her by at least an inch as her vehicle coughed and choked its way into the air.

"Next stop, recycling heap. I swear it," she muttered and she punched at her communicator. "Peabody, what the fuck is going on here?"

"Sir." Peabody popped on screen, eyes bland, mouth sober. "I believe you've encountered the jam incited by the protest on Fifth."

"That wasn't scheduled. I know damn well it wasn't on the boards for this morning. They can't have a permit."

"Free-Agers don't believe in permits, sir." She cleared her throat when Eve snarled. "I believe if you head west, you'll have better luck on Seventh. Traffic is heavy there, but it's moving. If you check your dash monitor -- "

"Yeah, like that's going to work in this piece of shit. Call Maintenance and tell them they're meat. Then contact the commander, explain that I may be a few minutes late for the meeting." As she spoke, she wrestled with the car, which tended to dip and cause both pedestrians and other drivers to stare up in terror. "If I don't fall on someone, I should be there in twenty minutes."

She avoided, barely, the edge of a billboard hologram touting the delights of private air travel. She and the Jet Star headed in opposite directions with varying degrees of success. She nicked the curb as she set down on Seventh and couldn't blame the suit and tie pumping up his air skates for flipping her the bird.

But she'd missed him, hadn't she?

She was just indulging in a sigh of relief when her communicator shrilled.

"Any unit, any unit. Twelve seventeen, roof of Tattler Building, Seventh and Forty-second. Respond immediately. Unidentified female, considered armed."

Twelve seventeen, Eve thought. Self-termination threat. What the hell was this? "Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, responding. ETA five minutes."

She beat her siren into life and hit vertical again.

The Tattler Building, home of the nation's most popular tabloid, was shiny and new. The buildings on its former site had been razed in the thirties for the urban beautification program, which was a euphemism for the decay of infrastructure and construction that had plagued New York during the period.

It speared up in silvery steel, bullet-shaped, and was ringed by circling skywalks and glides with a fresh-air restaurant spilling out from its base.

Eve double parked, grabbed her field kit, and pushed her way through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. She flipped her badge at the security guard and watched relief drown his face.

"Thank Christ. She's up there, holding everybody off with antimugging spray. Got Bill dead in the eyes when he tried to grab her."

"Who is she?" Eve demanded as he hustled his way toward the interior elevator banks.

"Cerise Devane. She owns the fucking place."

"Devane?" Eve knew her vaguely. Cerise Devane, CEO of Tattler Enterprises, was one of the privileged and influential people who sauntered in Roarke's circles. "Cerise Devane is on the roof threatening to jump? What is this, some sort of insane publicity stunt to bump up their circulation?"

"Looks real to me." He puffed out his cheeks. "She's buck ass naked, too. That's all I know," the guard claimed as the elevator shot upward. "Her assistant made the call. Frank Rabbit. You can get more out of him -- if he's conscious by now. Guy keeled right over when she went out on the ledge. That's what I heard."

"You call for psych?"

"Somebody did. We got the company shrink up there now, and a specialist in self-termination is on the way. Fire department, too, and air rescue. Everything's backed up. Bad traffic jam on Fifth."

"Tell me about it."

The doors opened onto the roof, and Eve stepped out into a brisk, cooling wind that hadn't been able to find its way through the towering walls of buildings to the valley of the streets. She took a quick scan.

Cerise's office was built onto the roof, or more accurately, into it. Slanted walls of treated glass formed a peak and would afford the CEO a three hundred sixty degree view of the city and people she loved to dish up in her paper.

Through the glass, Eve could see the artwork, decor, and equipment designed for a top-flight office. And on the L-shaped lounging sofa, a man was stretched out with a compress on his forehead.

"If that's Rabbit, tell him to pull himself together and get out here to fill me in. And get anyone who isn't essential off this roof. Clear that crowd off the streets. If she goes off, we don't need her squashing bystanders."

"I just don't have the man power," the guard began.

"Get Rabbit out here," she repeated and called Cop Central. "Peabody, I've got a situation."

"I heard. What do you need?"

"Get down here, send a crowd dispersal unit to move those people off the street. Bring me all available data on Cerise Devane. See if Feeney can put a freeze on her 'links -- home, personal, and portable -- for the last twenty-four hours. Make it snappy."

"Done," Peabody responded and broke transmission.

She turned as the guard all but carried a young man across to her. Rabbit's company tie was loose, his stylishly shaped hair was mussed and matted. His hands, neatly manicured, shook.

"Tell me exactly what happened," she snapped. "Make it fast, and make it clear. You can fall apart when I'm finished with you."

"She just -- just walked out of the office." His voice hitched and dipped and he sagged weakly against the supporting arm of the guard. "She looked so happy. She was almost dancing. She -- she'd taken off her clothes. She'd taken them off."

Eve cocked a brow. At the moment, Rabbit seemed more shocked by his boss's sudden whim for exhibitionism than the possibility of her death. "What led up to it?"

"I don't know. I swear, I have no idea. She'd wanted me to come in early, about eight. She was upset over one of the lawsuits. We're always getting sued. She was smoking and gulping coffee and pacing. Then she sent me out to light a fire under Legal and said she was going to take a few minutes to relax and level out."

He stopped, covered his face with his hands. "Fifteen minutes later she walked out, smiling and -- and nude. I was so stunned, I just sat there. Just sat there." His teeth began to chatter. "I've never even seen her without her shoes."

"Being naked's not her big problem now," Eve pointed out. "Did she speak to you, say anything?"

"I, well, I was so stunned, you see. I said something, something like, 'Ms. Devane, what are you doing? Is something wrong?' And she just laughed. She said it was perfect. She had it all figured out now, and everything was wonderful. She was going to sit out on the ledge awhile before she jumped. I thought she was joking, and I was nervous so I laughed a little."

His eyes were stricken. "I laughed, and then I saw her go to the edge of the roof. Jesus. She just popped over the side. I thought she'd jumped, and I ran out and over. There she was, sitting on the ledge, swinging her legs and humming. I asked her please to come back up before she lost her balance. She just laughed, spritzed a little of the spray at me, and told me she'd just found her balance and to go away like a good boy."

"She get any calls, make any?"

"No." He wiped his mouth. "Any transmissions would have gone through my unit. She's going to jump, I tell you. She leaned over while I was watching, nearly went over then. And she said what a nice trip it was going to be. She's going to jump."

"We'll see about that. Stay available." Eve turned away. The company shrink was easy enough to spot. He was dressed in a knee-length white smock and black pipestem pants. His comforting gray hair was twisted into a neat queue, and he was leaning over the edge of the roof, his posture transmitting anxiety.

Even as Eve started toward him, she swore. She heard the whirl of flybys, then cursed the media again as she spotted the first air van. Channel 75, naturally, she mused. Nadine Furst was always first out of the gate.

The shrink straightened, smoothed down his smock for the cameras. Eve decided she was going to detest him. "Doctor?" She held up her badge and noticed the undisguised excitement in his eyes. All Eve could think was, a company the size and strength of Tattler could afford better.

"Lieutenant, I believe I'm making some progress with the subject."

"She's still on the ledge, isn't she?" Eve pointed out and brushed past him to lean over. "Cerise?"

"More company?"

Sleek and pretty, skin the color of blushing rose petals, her well-toned legs swinging merrily, Cerise looked up. Her hair was jet black, its carefully groomed waves blowing in the breeze. She had a foxy, intelligent face and sharp green eyes. Just now, those eyes were soft and dreamy.

"Why, it's Eve, isn't it? Eve Dallas, the new bride. Lovely wedding, by the way. Really the social event of the year. We moved thousands of units with our coverage."

"Good for you."

"You know, I had research and data search busting butt to try to get the honeymoon itinerary. I don't think anybody but Roarke could have managed a full media blackout." She wagged her ringer playfully, and her perky breasts swayed. "You could have shared, just a little. The public's dying to know."

She giggled at that, shifted, and nearly overbalanced. "We're all dying to know. Whoops. Not yet. Too much fun, don't want to rush it." Straightening, she waved at the air vans. "Usually I hate the damn visual media. Can't think why, just now. I love everybody!" She shouted the last, tossing her arms wide.

"That's nice, Cerise. Why don't you come back up for a minute. I'll give you some data on the honeymoon. Exclusive."

Cerise smiled slyly. "Uh-uh-uh." The refusal was playful again, almost a giggle. "Why don't you come down and join me? You can go with me. I'm telling you, it's the ultimate."

"Now, Ms. Devane," the shrink began, "all of us have moments of despair. I understand. I'm with you. I hear your sorrow."

"Oh stuff it." Cerise brushed him back with a gesture. "I'm talking to Eve. Come on down, sweetie. But not too close." She shook the spray and giggled. "Come on and join the party."

"Lieutenant, I don't recommend that you -- "

"Shut up and go wait for my aide," Eve told him as she swung a leg over the steel safety wall, lowered herself over the edge.

The wind didn't seem quite so pleasant when she was dangling seventy stories over the street, nudged on a steel ledge barely two feet wide. Here it buffeted and swirled, aided by the backwash from the air vans. It plucked at the clothes and slapped the skin. She ordered her heart to stop jumping and pressed her back to the building.

"Isn't it beautiful," Cerise sighed. "I'd love to have some wine now, wouldn't you? No, a big flute of champagne. Roarke's Reserve forty-seven would go down smooth right now."

"I think we've got a case at home. Let's go open one."

Cerise laughed, turned her head, and smiled hugely. And it was the smile, Eve realized as her heart lurched again, she'd seen on the face of a young man hanging from a homemade noose. "I'm already drunk on happiness."

"If you're happy, why are you sitting naked on a ledge considering taking the last leap?"

"That's what makes me happy. I don't know why you don't understand." Cerise lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes. Eve risked shifting a few inches closer. "I don't know why everyone doesn't understand. It's so beautiful. It's so thrilling. It's everything."

"Cerise, you go off this ledge, it's nothing. It's over."

"No, no, no." She opened her eyes again, and they were glazed. "It's just the beginning, don't you see? Oh, we're all so blind."

"Whatever's wrong can be fixed. I know." Carefully, Eve laid a hand on Cerise's. She didn't grip, didn't want to risk it. "Surviving's what counts. You can change things, make things better, but you have to survive to do it."

"Do you know how much work that is? And what's the point when there's so much pleasure just waiting. I feel so good. Don't." Chuckling, Cerise aimed the spray at Eve's face. "Don't spoil it now. I'm having such a nice time."

"You have people who are worried about you. You have family, Cerise, who love you." Eve strained to remember. Was there a child, a spouse, parents? "If you do this, you'll hurt them."

"Only until they understand. The time's coming when everyone will understand. It's going to be better then. Beautiful then." She looked dreamily into Eve's eyes, that beaming and terrifying smile on her lips. "Come with me." She grabbed Eve's hand, clutched. "It's going to be wonderful. You only have to let go."

Sweat snaked a line down Eve's back. The woman's grip was like a vise, and a struggle for freedom could doom them both. She forced herself not to resist, to ignore the twisting wind and the hum of the air vans documenting every movement. "I don't want to die, Cerise," she said calmly. "And neither do you. Self-termination is for cowards."

"No, it's for explorers. But suit yourself." Cerise patted Eve's hand, released it, and gave a long, trilling laugh to the wind. "Oh God, I'm so happy," she said and, throwing her arms wide, leaned forward into space.

Instinctively, Eve grabbed. She nearly lost her perch as her fingertips brushed the trim line of Cerise's hip. She banged onto her side, fought the roll forward as wind and space pulled at her. Gravity worked fast, mercilessly. Eve stared down into that wildly smiling face until it was only a blur.

"Jesus God. Oh, Jesus God." Dizzy with reaction, she pushed herself up, leaned her head back, shut her eyes. Screams and shouts rained on her, and the air displaced by the media van coming in for a close-up struck her cheeks.

"Lieutenant. Dallas."

The voice was like a bee buzzing in her ears, and Eve simply shook her head.

On the roof, Peabody stared down and fought against the nausea rising into her throat. All she could see now was that Eve was pressed on the ledge, white as a sheet, and one careful move would send her after the woman she'd tried to save. Taking a deep breath, Peabody trained her voice to sharp, professional tones.

"Lieutenant Dallas, you're needed here. I require your recorder for a full report."

"I hear you," Eve said wearily. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she reached behind to grip the edge of the roof. As a hand locked over hers, she got to her feet. Turning her back to the fall, she looked dead into Peabody's eyes, read the fear. "The last time I thought about jumping, I was eight." Though her legs shook a bit, she swung back onto the roof. "I won't go that way."

"Jesus, Dallas." Forgetting herself for a moment, Peabody gave Eve a hard hug. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought she was going to pull you off."

"So did I. She didn't. Get a grip here, Peabody. The press is having a field day."

"Sorry." Peabody pulled back, coloring a bit. "Sorry."

"No problem." Eve looked over to where the shrink was standing at the edge, one hand to his heart in a pose for the busy cameras. "Asshole," she muttered. She dug her hands into her pockets. She needed a minute, just another minute, to settle. "I couldn't stop her, Peabody. I couldn't find the right button to push."

"Sometimes there isn't one."

"There was one that switched her onto this," Eve said quietly. "There had to be one to switch her off."

"I'm sorry, Dallas. You knew her."

"Not really. Just one of the people who walk past a corner of your life." She pushed it away, had to push it away. Death, however it came, always left responsibilities. "Let's see what we can do here. Did you tag Feeney?"

"Affirmative. He locked on her 'links from EDD and said he would head over personally. I downloaded data on the subject, didn't take time to scan it."

They walked toward the office. Through the glass, Rabbit could be seen sitting with his head between his knees. "Do me a favor, Peabody. Pass that limp rag off to a uniform for a formal statement. I don't want to deal with him right now. I want her office secured. Let's see if we can figure out what the hell she was doing that set her off."

Peabody marched in, had Rabbit up and out with a uniform in seconds. With wicked efficiency, she cleared the room, sealed the outer doors. "It's all ours, sir."

"Haven't I told you not to call me sir?"

"Yes, sir," Peabody said with a smile she hoped would lift the heavy mood.

"There's a smart-ass lurking under that uniform." Eve blew out a breath. "Recorder on, Peabody."

"Already on."

"Okay, here she is. She's in early, pissed off. Rabbit says she was hyped about some litigation. Get data on that." As she spoke, Eve wandered the room, absorbing details. Sculptures, mostly mythological figures in bronze. Very stylized. Deep blue carpet to match the sky, the desk in rose tones with a mirror gloss. Office equipment sleek and modern and tinted that same flowery shade. A huge copper urn exploded with exotic blooms, and Eve noticed a pair of potted trees.

She crossed to the computer, took her master pass out of her field kit, and called for the last use report

Last use, 8:10 AM., call for file number 3732-1 legal, Custler v Tattler Enterprises.

"That'd be the lawsuit she was pissed about," Eve concluded. "Jibes with Rabbit's earlier statement." She glanced down at a marble ashtray loaded with a half dozen cigarette butts. Using tweezers, she picked one up, examined it. "Caribbean tobacco. Web filter. Pricey. Bag these."

"You think they might be laced with something?"

"She was laced with something. Her eyes were wrong." She wouldn't forget them, Eve knew, for a long, long time. "We can hope there's enough left of her for a tox report. Take a sample of those coffee dregs, too."

But Eve didn't think they would find what she was looking for in the tobacco or the coffee. There had been no chemical trace in any of the other suicides.

"Her eyes were wrong," Eve repeated. "And her smile. I've seen that smile before, Peabody. A couple of times now."

As she tucked the evidence bags away, Peabody glanced up. "You think this is connected with the others?"

"I think Cerise Devane was a successful, ambitious woman. And we'll go through procedure, but I'm willing to lay odds we won't find a motive for self-termination. She sends Rabbit out," Eve continued, pacing the office. Annoyed by the constant hum, she glanced up, scowled at the air van still hovering. "See if you can find the privacy shields. I'm tired of those jerks."

"A pleasure." Peabody hunted up the control panel. "I thought I saw Nadine Furst in one of them. The way she was leaning out, it was a good thing she was wearing a harness. She might have ended up as the lead on her own newscast."

"At least she'll get it right," Eve said half to herself and nodded when the privacy shields slid into place and closed off the glass. "Good. Lights," she ordered, and brought the brightness back up. "She wanted to relax, level herself off for the rest of the day."

Eve poked into a cold box, found soft drinks, fruit, wine. One of the wine bottles had been opened and resealed, but there was no glass to indicate Cerise had started drinking early. And it wasn't a couple of belts that had put that look in her eyes, Eve mused.

In the adjoining bath, complete with whirlpool, personal sauna, and mood enhancer tube, she found a cupboard filled with soothers and tranqs and legalized lifters. "A big believer in chemical assistance, our Cerise," she commented. "Take them in for testing."

"Jesus, she's got her own pharmacy. The mood tube's set on concentration mode, and the last use was yesterday morning. She didn't take a spin this morning."

"So what does she do to relax?" Eve stepped into an adjoining room, which was a small sitting room, she noted, complete with full entertainment unit, sleep chair, serving droid.

A lovely, sage-green suit was neatly folded on a small table. Matching shoes stood on the floor under it. Jewelry -- a heavy linked gold chain, complicated twists of earrings, a slim bracelet watch-recorder -- had been slipped tidily in a glass bowl.

"She undressed in here. Why? What was the point?"

"Some people relax better without the confines of clothes," Peabody said, then flushed when Eve cast a considering glance over her shoulder. "I've heard."

"Yeah. Maybe. But it doesn't suit her. She was a real put-together woman. Her assistant told me he'd never even seen her without shoes, and suddenly she's a closet nudist. I don't think so."

Her gaze landed on the VR goggles on the arm of the sleep chair. "Maybe she took a trip after all," Eve murmured. "She's frazzled, wants to smooth the edges. So she comes in here, stretches out, programs something, and takes a little ride."

Eve sat, picked up the goggles. VR goggles, she mused. Fitzhugh and Mathias had taken trips before death as well. "I'm going to see where she went and when. Ah, if I appear to have any suicidal urges after I'm done -- or decide I can relax better without the confines of my clothes -- you're ordered to knock me cold."

"Without hesitation, sir."

Eve cocked a brow. "But you're not expected to enjoy it."

"I'll hate every minute of it," Peabody promised, and folded her hands.

With a weak laugh, Eve slipped the goggles on. "Display log," she ordered. "Bull's-eye. She went VR at 8:17 this morning."

"Dallas, if that's the case, maybe you shouldn't do this. We can take it in and test it under controlled conditions."

"You're my control, Peabody. If I look too happy to live shortly, zap me. Replay last run program," Eve ordered and settled back. "Jesus." She hissed it out as two young studs walked toward her. Dressed only in strips of glossy black leather studded with silver, they were oiled, muscled, and fully aroused.

Her environment was now a white room, mostly bed, and there was satin under her naked body, gauze draped overhead to filter the candlelight from a soaring chandelier of glittery crystal.

Music, something low and pagan, throbbed on the air. She was draped over a mountain of feather pillows, and as she started to shift, the first young god straddled her.

"Hey, listen, pal -- "

"For your pleasure only, mistress," he crooned and rubbed her breasts with scented oil.

This is a bad idea, she thought as little involuntary shivers of pleasure centered in her gut. Oil was slicked over her stomach, her thighs, down her legs to her toes.

She could understand how the current situation could make a woman strip and smile, but not how it could drive her to suicide.

Stick it out, she ordered herself and turned her mind to something else. She thought of the report she needed to give her commander. Of unexplained shadows on the brain.

Teeth closed delicately over her nipple, a tongue slid wetly over the captured point. She arched in reaction, but the hand she shot out in protest slipped off a taut, oil-slicked shoulder.

Then the second stud knelt between her legs and went to work on her with his mouth.

She came before she could stop herself, a small pop of release. Panting, she ripped the goggles off and found Peabody gaping at her.

"It wasn't a walk on a quiet beach," Eve managed.

"I could see that. What was it, exactly?"

"A couple of mostly naked guys and a big satin bed." Eve blew out a breath, set the goggles down. "Who'd have thought she relaxed with sex fantasies?"

"Ah, Lieutenant. Sir. As your aide, I believe it's my responsibility to test that unit. For evidence control."

Eve tucked her tongue in her cheek. "Peabody, I couldn't let you take that kind of risk."

"I'm a cop, sir. Risk is my life."

Eve rose, held out the goggles as Peabody's eyes lit. "Bag it, Officer."

Deflated, Peabody dumped the goggles into a seal. "Hell. Were they good looking?"

"Peabody, they were gods." She stepped back into the office proper, gave it one more scan. "I'm going to order in sweepers, but I don't think they'll find anything. I'll take the disc you downloaded into Central, contact next of kin -- though the media will already have this all over the fucking airwaves."

She hitched up her field kit. "I don't feel at all suicidal."

"I'm relieved to hear it, Lieutenant."

Still, Eve frowned at the goggles. "How long was I riding that, five minutes?"

"Nearly twenty." Peabody gave a sour smile. "Time flies when you're having sex."

"I wasn't having sex." Guilt had her worrying her wedding ring. "Exactly. If there'd been something in that program, I should have felt it, so that looks like a dead end. Have it analyzed anyway."

"Will do."

"You wait for Feeney. Maybe he'll find something interesting on her 'link logs. I'm going to go grovel to the commander. When you finish here, deliver the bags to the lab, then report to my office." Eve started for the door, tossed a look over her shoulder. "And Peabody, no playing with the evidence."

"Spoilsport," she muttered when Eve was out of earshot.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Commander Whitney sat behind his massive, well-organized desk and listened. He appreciated the fact that his lieutenant delivered a clean and concise report, and he admired that she could omit certain details without a flicker.

A good cop had to stand cool under fire. Eve Dallas, he was pleased to know, was ice.

"You had the autopsy data on Fitzhugh analyzed outside the department."

"Yes, sir." She didn't blink. "The analysis required more sophisticated equipment than NYPSD currently has access to."

"And you had access to this more sophisticated equipment."

"I was able to gain access."

"And run the analysis?" he asked, quirking a brow. "Computer science is not your strong suit, Dallas."

She looked him dead in the eye. "I've been working on improving my skills in that area, Commander."

He doubted that, sincerely. "Subsequently, you gained entry to the files at the Government Security Center, and there, confidential reports fell into your hands."

"That's correct. I don't wish to reveal my source."

"Your source?" he repeated. "Are you telling me you have a weasel at GSC?"

"There are weasels everywhere," Eve said coolly.

"That might fly," he murmured. "Or you might find yourself facing a subcommittee back in East Washington."

Eve's stomach shimmied, but her voice stayed steady. "I'm prepared for that."

"You'd better be." Whitney sat back, steepled his hands, tapped his fingertips against his chin. "The case on the Olympus Resort. You also accessed data there. That's quite a bit out of your jurisdiction, Lieutenant."

"I was on scene during that incident, and I reported my findings to interspace authorities."

"Who then took over the disposition of the matter," Whitney added.

"I'm authorized to request data when an outside case relates to one of mine, Commander."

"That's yet to be substantiated."

"The data's necessary for me to substantiate the connection."

"That would hold, Dallas, if there was a homicide."

"I believe there are four of them, including Cerise Devane."

"Dallas, I've just viewed the recording of that incident. I saw a cop and a jumper on a ledge, the cop attempting to talk the subject in, and the subject choosing the leap. She was not pushed, she was not coerced, she was not threatened in any way."

"It's my professional opinion that she was coerced."

"How?"

"I don't know." And for the first time, frustration leaked through. "But I'm sure, dead sure, that if they had enough of her brain to scrape up off the street for analysis, they'd find that same burn on the frontal lobe. I know it, Commander. I just don't know how it's getting there." She waited a beat. "Or being put there."

His eyes flickered. "Are you theorizing that someone is influencing certain individuals to self-termination through some sort of brain implant?"

"I can't find any genetic link among the subjects. No social group, education sphere, or religious affiliation. They didn't grow up in the same town, they didn't drink the same water, attend the same health clubs or centers. But they all had the same flaw in the brain. That's beyond coincidence, Commander. It was caused, and if by being caused it coerced those people to end their lives, then it's murder. And it's mine."

"You're walking a thin wire, Dallas," Whitney said after a moment. "The dead have families, and the families want this put away. Your continued investigation extends the grieving process."

"I'm sorry for that."

"It's also raising questions from The Tower," he added, referring to the Chief of Police and Security.

"I'm willing to present my report to Chief Tibble, if directed." But she hoped she wouldn't be. "I'll stand on my record, Commander. I'm not a rookie playing terrier with a dead case."

"Even experienced cops overfocus, make mistakes."

"Then let me make them." She shook her head before he could speak. "I was on that ledge today, Commander. I looked at her face, into her eyes when she went off. And I know."

He folded his hands on the edge of the desk. Administration was always a struggle in compromise. He had other cases, and he needed her on them. The budget was thin, and there was never enough time or man power. "I can give you a week, no more. If you don't have the right answers by then, you close the files."

She drew a breath. "And the chief?"

"I'll speak with him personally. Get me something, Dallas, or be prepared to move on."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed," he said, then added when she reached the door. "Oh, and Dallas, if you're going to go outside the official sphere for ... research, watch your step. And give my best to your husband."

She colored slightly. He'd pinned her source, and they both knew it. She mumbled something and escaped. Dodged that stun stream, she thought and dragged a hand through her hair. Then, with an oath, she dashed toward the nearest down glide. She was going to be late for court.

She was approaching the end of her shift when she made it back to her office and found Peabody settled at the desk, a cup of coffee in her hand.

Eve leaned against the doorjamb. "Comfortable, Officer?"

Peabody jerked, sloshed a little coffee, cleared her throat. "I didn't know your ETA."

"Apparently. Something wrong with your unit?"

"Ah, no. No, sir. I thought it more efficient to enter the new data directly into yours."

"That's a good story, Peabody, you stick with it." Eve walked to her AutoChef and programmed coffee for herself. It was Roarke's blend rather than the poison served in the bull pen area, which explained Peabody cozying up at her superior's desk.

"What new data?"

"Captain Feeney pulled all communications on Devane's 'links. Doesn't appear to be anything that relates, but it's all here. We have her personal datebook with all appointments and the most current data from her last health exam."

"She have any problems there?"

"Not a one. She was a tobacco addict, registered, and took regular anticancer injections. She had no sign of disease: physical, emotional, or mental. Tended toward stress and overwork, which was counteracted with soothers and tranqs. She was cohabitating, happily, by all reports. Her partner is currently off planet. You have the name of next of kin, her son from a previous partnership."

"Yeah, I contacted him. He's based at the Tattler offices in New L.A. He's coming in." Eve angled her head. "Comfortable, Peabody?"

"Yes, sir. Oh, sorry." She got up quickly from behind the desk and resettled in the ratty chair beside it. "Your meeting with the commander?"

"We've got a week," Eve said briskly as she sat. "Let's make the most of it. ME's report on Devane?"

"Not yet available."

Eve turned to her 'link. "Let's see if we can give him a little shove."

-=O=-***-=O=-

By the time she got home, she was staggering. She'd missed dinner, which she thought was just as well since she'd ended the day at the morgue viewing what was left of Cerise Devane.

Even the stomach of a veteran cop could turn.

And she would get nothing there, nothing at all. She doubted even Roarke's equipment could reconstruct enough of Devane to be of any help.

She walked in, nearly tripped over the cat who was stretched at the threshold, and drummed up the energy to bend down and lift him. He studied her, annoyance gleaming in his bi-colored eyes.

"You wouldn't get kicked, pal, if you draped your fat ass somewhere else."

"Lieutenant."

She shifted the cat, looked over at Summerset who, as usual, had appeared out of nowhere. "Yeah, I'm late," she snapped. "Give me a demerit."

He didn't add his normal withering remark. He had seen the clips on the news channel, and he had watched her on the ledge. He had seen her face. "You'll want dinner."

"No, I don't." She wanted bed and headed for the stairs.

"Lieutenant." He waited for her bad-tempered oath, waited until she'd turned her head to scowl at him. "A woman who steps out on a ledge is either very brave or very stupid."

The scowl turned into a sneer. "I don't have to ask what category you put me in."

"No, you don't." He watched her climb up and thought her courage was terrifying.

The bedroom was empty. She told herself she'd run a house scan for Roarke's location in just a minute, then fell facedown on the bed. Galahad wiggled out of the crook of her arm and climbed onto her butt to circle and knead his way to comfort.

Roarke found her there minutes later, sprawled out in exhaustion, a sausage-shaped cat guarding her flank.

He simply studied her for a while. He, too, had seen the news clips. They had paralyzed him, dried the saliva in his mouth, and turned his bowels to water. He knew how often she faced death -- others' and her own -- and told himself he accepted it.

But that morning he had watched, helpless, while she'd teetered on the brink. He'd looked into her eyes, seen the grit and the fear. And he had suffered.

Now she was here, home, a woman with more bone and muscle than curves, with hair that badly needed tending and boots worn out at the heels.

He walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, and laid a hand over the one curled loosely on the spread.

"I'm just getting my second wind," she murmured.

"I can see that. We'll go dancing in a minute."

She managed a chuckle. "Can you move that boulder off my butt?"

Obligingly, Roarke picked up Galahad, smoothed the ruffled fur. "You've had quite a day, Lieutenant. The media's been full of you."

She rolled over but kept her eyes shut a minute longer. "I'm glad I missed it. You know about Cerise then."

"Yes, I had Channel 75 on while I was preparing for my first meeting this morning. I caught it all live."

She heard the strain in his voice and opened her eyes. "Sorry."

"You'll say you were doing your job." He set the cat aside and brushed the hair back from Eve's cheek. "But it was above and beyond, Eve. She could have taken you with her."

"I wasn't ready to go." She cupped a hand over the one he held to her cheek. "I had a flash when I was up there. Memory flash of when I was a kid, standing at the window of some filthy flop he'd booked us into. I thought about jumping then, just getting it the hell over with. I wasn't ready to go. I'm still not."

Galahad climbed out of Roarke's lap and stretched his bulk over Eve's belly. It made Roarke smile. "Looks like we both intend to keep you here for a while. What have you eaten today?"

She pursed her lips. "Is this a quiz?"

"Nothing to speak of," he decided.

"Food's not high on my list right now. I've just come from the morgue. Contact with concrete after seventy-story flights does unattractive things to flesh and bone."

"I don't imagine there was enough to scan for comparison with the others."

Despite the grisly image, she grinned, sat up, and gave him a quick, loud kiss. "You're cued up, Roarke. That's one of the things I like best about you."

"I thought it was my body."

"That's right up on the list," she told him as he rose and went over to the recessed AutoChef. "No, there isn't going to be enough, but there has to be a connection. You see it, don't you?"

He waited until the protein drink he'd ordered came through. "Cerise was an intelligent, sensible, and driven woman. She was often selfish, continually vain, and could be an enormous pain in the ass." He came back to the bed, held out the glass. "She wasn't the type to jump off the roof of her own building -- and let the visual media scoop her own organization."

"I'll add that to my data." She frowned at the creamy, mint-colored drink in her hand. "What is this?"

"Nutrition. Drink it." He tipped it up to her lips. "All."

She took the first sip out of self-defense, decided it wasn't altogether hideous, and gulped it down. "There. Feel better now?"

"Yes. Did Whitney give you room to pursue?"

"I've got a week. And he knows I've been using your ... facilities. He's pretending he doesn't." She set the glass aside, started to stretch back out, then remembered. "We were supposed to watch videos, eat popcorn, and neck."

"You stood me up." He tugged on her hair. "I'll have to divorce you."

"God, you're strict." Suddenly nervous, she rubbed her hands together. "While you're in that mode, I guess I'd better come clean."

"Oh, were you out necking with someone else?"

"Not exactly."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You want a drink? We've got some wine up here, don't we?" She started to get off the bed, but she wasn't at all surprised to have his hand snake out and grip her arm.

"Clarify."

"I'm going to. I just think it might go down better with some wine. Okay?" She tried a smile but knew it fell far short of charming when he met it with a long, steely stare. His grip loosened enough for her to scoot up and hurry over to the bedroom cold box. She took her time pouring it, and kept her distance as she began.

"Peabody and I were doing the first sweep of Devane's office and quarters. She has a relaxation room."

"I'm aware of that."

"Sure you are." She took a sip first to fortify her for confession before she crossed back. "Anyway, I noticed she had VR goggles on the arm of her sleep chair. Mathias had been on VR before he hanged himself. Fitzhugh liked to use VR. It's a slim link, but I figured it was better than no link."

"Over ninety percent of the population of this country has at least one VR per household," Roarke pointed out, eyes still narrowed on her face.

"Yeah, but you have to start somewhere. This is a brain flaw, VR links to the brain as well as the senses. It occurred to me that if there was a defect, intentional or accidental, in the goggles, it might have caused the suicidal urge."

He nodded slowly. "All right. I follow that."

"So I tried her set."

"Wait." He held up a hand. "You suspected the goggles were a contributor to her death, so you merrily put them on yourself. Are you out of your mind?"

"Peabody was there as control, with orders to stun me if necessary."

"Well then." Disgusted, he flung up a hand. "That's just fine. That's perfectly reasonable then. She'd knock you unconscious before you jumped off the roof."

"There you are." She sat down beside him, handed him his glass. "I checked the last use log. She'd gone VR minutes before she walked out and onto that ledge. I was sure I was going to find something in whatever program she'd been on." She paused to scratch the back of her neck. "You know, I figured it would be some relaxation program. Maybe a meditation run, your standard sea cruise, or a country meadow."

"I take it it wasn't."

"No, it wasn't. It was, ah, a fantasy run. You know, a sexual fantasy."

Intrigued now, he folded his legs under him, cocked his head. His mouth remained sober, his Irish blue eyes bland. "Was it really?" He took a casual sip of wine before setting the glass aside. "And consisted of?"

"Well, there were these guys."

"Plural?"

"Just two." She could feel the heat rising up to her throat and detested it. "It was an official investigation."

"Were you naked?"

"Jesus, Roarke."

"I believe it's a perfectly reasonable question."

"Maybe for a minute, okay? It was the program, and I had to test the program, and it wasn't my fault these guys were all over me -- and I aborted it before, well almost before ..."

She stumbled to a guilty halt and saw with shock that he was grinning at her. "You think it's funny?" Bunching her fist, she punched him in the shoulder. "I've been feeling like slime all day, and you think it's funny."

"Before what?" he asked, nipping the glass out of her hand before she could upend it over his head. He set it down beside his own. "You aborted the program almost before what, precisely?"

Her eyes went to slits. "They were great. I'm getting a copy of the program for my personal use. I won't need you anymore, because I've got a couple of love slaves."

"Wanna bet?" He pushed her back on the bed, wrestled with her, and managed to get her shirt over her head.

"Cut it out. I don't want you. My love slaves keep me satisfied." She flipped him, nearly had him pinned when his mouth closed over her breast, and his hand slid neatly down to cup her over the thin wool snug at her crotch.

Heat speared through her like lightning.

"Damn it." She gasped out a breath. "I'm just pretending to enjoy this."

"Okay."

He tugged the slacks over her hips, then skimmed his fingertips over her. She was already wet, luring him in. His teeth closed over her nipple, tugged, just as he nudged her to peak.

It wasn't a gentle pop this time. The orgasm came in one hard, fast wave that swamped her, drowned her, then tossed her helplessly over the next crest.

She moaned out his name. It was always his name. But when she reached for him, he cuffed her wrists, drew her arms over her head. "No." His own breathing was uneven and thick as he stared down at her. "Just take it. Take me."

He slipped inside her slowly, inch by inch, watching her eyes go blind and dark as he moved. Clamping down on the urge to ravish, to answer the sudden wild pistoning of her hips, he let her drive herself over the next edge.

And when she was limp and her breathing in tatters, he shifted to long, steady strokes. "Take more," he murmured, swallowing her groans, holding her captive, hands, mouth, loins. "And more."

Her system was overloaded, scrambled like her pulse. Her body was under siege, her sex so sensitized the wild pleasure was akin to pain. And still he moved slowly, lazily. "I can't," she managed, and her head whipsawed even as her hips arched for more. "It's too much."

"Let go, Eve." He was holding onto control by his fingernails. "Once more."

He didn't let himself fall until she did.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Her head was still spinning when she managed to push herself up on her elbows. Amazingly, they were both still half dressed and on top of the spread. From the corner of the bed, Galahad sat watching her with feline disgust. Or maybe it was envy.

Roarke had rolled over on his back and had what could only be interpreted as a smug smile on his lips.

"I guess that flexed your testosterone."

His smile spread wider. She jabbed a finger into his ribs.

"If that was to punish me, you missed the target."

Now he opened his eyes and they were filled with warm amusement. "Darling Eve, did you really think I'd consider your little adventure some sort of virtual adultery?"

She pouted a little. However ridiculous it was, she was miffed that he wasn't at all jealous. "Maybe."

With a long sigh, he sat up, set his hands on her shoulders. "You can indulge in fantasy professionally or personally. I'm not your keeper."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Not in the least." He gave her a friendly kiss, then caught her chin firmly in his hand. "Try it in the flesh, even once, and I'll have to kill you."

Her pupils widened, and foolishly her heart gave a pleased little leap. "Oh, well, that's fair."

"That's fact," he said simply. "Now that we have that straightened out, you should get some sleep."

"I'm not tired anymore." She tugged her slacks back over her hips and made him sigh again.

"I suppose that means you want to work."

"If I could use your system, just for a couple of hours, I could get a jump on my legwork tomorrow."

Resigned, he pulled on his own slacks. "Let's go then."

"Thanks." She tucked her hand in his companionably as they walked toward the private elevator. "Roarke, you wouldn't really kill me, would you?"

"Oh yes, I would." Smiling easily, he nudged her into the car. "But, given our relationship, I would trouble to do so quickly, and with as little pain as possible."

She shot him a glance. "Then I'll have to say same goes."

"Naturally. East wing, third level," he ordered, and gave her hand a companionable squeeze. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For the next few days, Eve beat her head against the wall of every dead end. When she needed a change of pace to clear her mind, she beat Peabody's head against the wall. She hounded Feeney to eke out whatever free time he could to find her something. Anything.

She gritted her teeth when other cases landed on her desk, and she worked overtime.

When the lab boys dragged their feet, she hopped on their backs and rode them mercilessly. It got to the point that the lab began to dodge her communications. To combat that, she hauled Peabody down to the lab for a little face-to-face persuasion.

"Don't try to sell me that SOS about backup, Dickie."

Dickie Berenski, privately known as Dickhead, looked pained. As chief lab tech, he should have been able to delegate a half dozen drones to ward off a personal confrontation with an irate detective, but every one of them had deserted him.

Heads would roll, he thought, and sighed. "What do you mean SOS?"

"Same old shit, Dickie. It's always SOS with you."

He scowled but decided to make the acronym his own. "Listen, Dallas, I got you the breakdown on all the over the counters, didn't I? Flagged them personally as a favor."

"Favor, my ass, I bribed you with box seats for the Arena Ball play-offs."

His face went prim. "I assumed that was a gift."

"And I'm not bribing you again." She jabbed a finger into his puny chest. "What's the deal with the VR goggles? Why haven't I got your report?"

"Because I haven't found anything to report. It's a hot program, Dallas -- " His eyebrows did a little suggestive dance. "But it was clean. No defects. So are all the other options on that unit -- clean and up to code. Better than," he added, his voice whining faintly. "We should have so good. I had Sheila take the whole unit apart and put it back together. Damn fine equipment, top of the line -- higher than top. The technology's off the scale. But that's to be expected. It's a Roarke product."

"It's a -- " She broke off, struggling not to show her surprise or distress at this new tidbit of information. "Which plant manufactures it?"

"Hell, Sheila's got that data. Off planet, I'm pretty sure. Cheaper labor. And that baby was right off the ship. Hasn't been on the open market more than a month."

Her stomach had clutched and tightened further. "But it's not defective?"

"Nope. It's a real honey. I've already put in for one of my own." He wiggled his brows hopefully. "Of course, you could probably get me a unit at cost."

"You get me the report, now, every single detail, and release the unit to me, and I'll think about it."

"It's Sheila's flex day," he whined, his mouth stretching down in a search for pity. "She'll have the report finished up and on your desk by noon tomorrow."

"Now, Dickie." A good cop knew her quarry's weaknesses. "And I'll see about making you a gift of your own unit."

"Well, in that case ... hang for ten." Cheery now, he hurried over to a computer bank tucked in one of the cubbyholes in the lab's beehive.

"Dallas, one of those units probably goes for two thousand, base." Peabody stared after Dickie in disgust. "You over-bribed him."

"I want that report." Eve imagined that Roarke had a case of the units somewhere for promotional giveaways. Giveaways, she thought with a sick roll in her stomach, to politicians, employees, prominent citizens. "I'm down to three days. And nothing. I won't be able to waltz Whitney toward an extension." She looked back over as Dickie pushed out of the cubicle.

"Sheila had it almost nailed down." He offered a sealed disc and a hard copy. "Look at this. This is a compu-graft of the VR pattern for the last program. Sheila's highlighted a couple of blips."

"What do you mean, blips?" Eve snatched the page and studied what appeared to be a series of lightning bolts and swirls.

"Can't say for certain. Probably the subliminal relaxation, or in this case, substimulation option. Some of the newer units are offering several extended subliminal packages. You can see these shadow the program, slide in every few seconds."

"Suggestions?" She felt her energy surge. "You mean the program was fitted with subliminal suggestions to the user?"

"Common enough practice. It's been used for habit breaking, sexual enhancement, mind expanding, and so on for decades. My old man quit tobacco on subliminals fifty years ago."

"What about planting urges... such as self-termination?"

"Look, subs give you little nudges toward hunger, consumer goods, or aid in habit breaking. That kind of direct suggestion?" He tugged at his lip, shook his head. "You'd have to go deeper, and I'd say it would take a long series of sessions to make the suggestion stick on a normal brain. Survival instinct's too strong."

He shook his head again, convinced. "We played those programs over and over."

Particularly the sexual fantasy sequences, Eve thought.

"Ran them on test subjects, into the droid for analysis. We got nobody jumping off the roof. In fact, we got no unusual reaction from anyone or out of the droid. It's just a top flight, that's it."

"I want a full analysis on the subliminal shadows."

He'd already anticipated that. "I need to keep the unit then. Sheila's started on it, as you can see, but it takes time. You've got to run the program, back out the overt VR, expunge the subliminals. Then it takes compu time to test, analyze, and report. A good subliminal, and I guarantee this one's an ace, is subtle. Chasing down its pattern isn't like reading a truth analysis."

"How much time?"

"Two days, a day and a half if we get lucky."

"Get lucky," she suggested and passed the hard copy to Peabody.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Eve tried not to worry about the fact that the VR was one of Roarke's toys, or what the consequences could be if it was indeed found to be part of the coercion. Subliminal shadows. That could be the connection she'd been searching for. The next step was to tag the VR units that had been in Fitzhugh's, Mathias's, and Pearly's possession at time of death.

With Peabody keeping pace, she hustled down the sidewalk. Her vehicle was -- still -- in Maintenance. Eve didn't think it worth the incredible headache of requisitioning a sub for a three-block hike.

"Autumn's coming."

"Huh?"

Curious that Eve seemed oblivious to the freshening in the air, the balmy scent on the eastward breeze, Peabody paused to take a deep breath. "You can smell it."

"What are you doing?" Eve demanded. "Are you crazy? Suck in enough of New York and you'll have to spend a day in detox."

"You get past the transport fumes and the body odor and it's wonderful. They might just pass that new fresh air bill this election."

Eve spared her aide a glance. "Your Free-Ager's showing, Peabody."

"Nothing wrong with environmental concerns. If it wasn't for the tree huggers, we'd all be wearing filter masks and sunshades year round." Peabody looked longingly at a people glide but matched her pace to Eve's long-legged stride. "Not to put a damper on things, Lieutenant, but you're going to have to do a major tap dance to access those VR units. SOP would be for them to have been returned to the deceaseds' estates by this time."

"I'll get them -- and I want this kept quiet, on a need-to-know basis only -- until I sort it out."

"Understood." She waited a moment. "I'd imagine Roarke has so many tentacles out there it would be impossible to know who's doing exactly what at any given time."

"It's a conflict of interest and we both know it. I'm putting your ass on the line with this."

"Sorry to disagree, sir, but I'm in charge of my own ass. It's only on the line if I put it there."

"So noted and appreciated."

"Then you can also note that I'm a big fan of Arena Ball as well, sir."

Eve stopped, took a long look, then laughed. "One ticket or two?"

"Two. I could get lucky."

They exchanged grins just as a shrill siren split the air. "Oh hell, oh shit, five minutes either way and we'd have slipped by this."

Eve drew her weapon and spun on her heel. The alarm pealed from the credit exchange center directly in front of her. "What fool hits a CEC two blocks from Cop Central? Clear the street, Peabody," she ordered, "then cover the back exit."

The first order was almost unnecessary as pedestrians were already scattering, trampling each other over glides and skywalks in a rush for cover. Eve whipped out her communicator, gave the standard order for backup before she dived through the automatic doors.

The lobby was a mass of confusion. Her only advantage was that me wave of people were rushing out as she rushed in, and they offered some cover. Like most CECs, the lobby area was small, windowless, banked with high counters for personal privacy. Only one of the personal service counters was manned by a human, the other three by droids who had gone into automatic shutdown once the panic button had been pushed.

The lone human was a female, probably mid-twenties, with closely cropped black hair, a tidy, conservative white jumpsuit, and an expression of utter terror on her face as she was held through the security port by the throat.

The man who gripped her was busy squeezing off her air and waving what was certainly a homemade explosive with his free hand.

"I'll kill her. I'll fucking stuff it down her throat."

The threat didn't worry Eve nearly as much as the calm, deliberate manner in which it was delivered. She discounted chemicals and a professional status. From the appearance of his threadbare jeans and shirt, the tired, unshaven face, she concluded she had one of the city's desperately poor on her hands.

"She hasn't done anything to you." With the first mad rush already out the door, Eve approached slowly. "She's not responsible. Why don't you let her go?"

"Everyone's done something to me. Everyone's part of the system." He yanked, pulling the hapless clerk a little farther through the security port. She was wedged now to the shoulders and turning faintly blue. "Keep back," he said quietly. "I've got nothing to lose and nowhere to go."

"You're choking her. Snuff her and you've got no shield. Ease up a little. What's your name?"

"Names don't count for shit." But he did loosen his grip enough to have the young clerk wheeze in a desperate breath. "Money's what matters. I walk out with a bag of credits, nobody gets hurt. Hell, they'll just make more."

"It doesn't work that way." Cautious, Eve took another three steps, keeping her eyes on his. "You know you're not going to get out of here. By now the street's blocked, the security units are deployed. Jesus, pal, the area's lousy with cops any time of the day or night. You could've picked better than this."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peabody slide through the rear access and take up her position. Neither of them could risk firing while he had the clerk and the explosive in his hands.

"If you drop that thing, even sweat too much, it could blow. Then everybody dies here."

"Then we'll all die here. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Let the clerk go. She's a civilian. She's just trying to make a living."

"So was I."

She saw it in his eyes just an instant too late. The utter despair. In a blink he tossed the hand-held boomer high and right. Eve's life flashed obscenely before her eyes as she sprinted forward and made the dive. She missed by a fingertip.

Even as she braced for the insult of the blast, the crudely made ball rolled into a corner, bobbled, then settled quietly.

"Dud." The would-be thief let out a weak laugh. "Doesn't it just figure?" Then, as Eve popped to her feet, he charged.

She didn't have time to aim, much less fire her weapon. He hit her like a battering ram, driving her back hard into one of the self-service counters. The explosion came now, inside her head as her hip slammed painfully into the edge. Sheer luck had her holding onto her weapon as stars burst in her head. She hoped the crack she heard was the cheap laminate giving and not bone.

He had her gripped in a pathetically loverlike embrace that was surprisingly effective. It blocked her weapon and pinned against the counter, so she was forced to shift her body weight rather than pivot.

They hit the floor, and this time she was unlucky enough to land first so that his thin, panic-fueled body dropped heavily on hers. Her elbow cracked on the tile, her knee jarred and twisted viciously. With more enthusiasm than finesse, she rammed the side of her weapon against his temple.

The move proved to be as effective as a stun. His eyes rolled up white before she shoved him aside and got to her knees.

Panting, fighting back the nausea that was a result of taking some bony part of his body in the stomach, she blew the hair out of her eyes. Peabody was also on her knees, the boomer in one hand, her weapon in the other.

"I couldn't get a clear shot. I went for the boomer first, thought you could take him."

"Fine, that's just dandy." She hurt everywhere, and now her pulse began to hammer at the sight of her aide clutching a bomb. "Don't move."

"Not moving. Barely breathing."

"I'll call the goddamn bomb disposal unit. Get a safe box in here now."

"I was just about -- " Peabody broke off, went pale as death. "Oh hell, Dallas. It's heating up."

"Dump it. Dump it now! Take cover." Swiping out one handed, Eve dragged the unconscious man with her behind the counter, draped herself over him, then locked her arms over the back of her head.

The explosion blasted the air, fumed out a fist of heat and had God knew what raining down on her. The auto fire control system whirled into action, spewing sprays of icy water, shrilling out a new alarm, warning employees and customers to vacate the building in a calm and orderly manner.

She sent up a quick thanks to whoever was listening that she felt no bright pain, and that all her body parts appeared to be attached.

Coughing against the thick wash of smoke, she crawled out from behind what was left of the counter. "Peabody. Christ." She hacked, wiped her stinging eyes, and kept crawling over the wet, now filthy floor. Something hot burned the heel of her hand, made her swear again. "Come on, Peabody. Where the hell are you?"

"Here." The answer was weak, followed by a fit of throaty coughing. "I'm okay. I think."

They met on hands and knees through the curtain of smoke and water and eyed each other's blackened faces. Casually, Eve reached out and rapped Peabody several times on the side of the head. "Your hair was on fire," she said mildly.

"Oh. Thanks. How's the asshole?"

"Still unconscious." Eve sat back on her heels and took a quick self-inventory. She didn't see any blood, which was no small relief. Most of her clothes were still there, which hardly mattered since they were ruined. "You know, Peabody, I think Roarke owns this building."

"Then he's probably going to be pissed. Smoke and water damage is a bitch."

"You're telling me. Let's call it a goddamn day. The credit cops can handle this. I'm giving a party tonight."

"Yeah." Mouth twisted, Peabody tugged on the torn sleeve of her uniform. "I'm looking forward to it." Then she swayed, squinted. "Dallas, how many pairs of eyes did you have when we came in here?"

"One. Just one."

"Shit. Now you've got two. I think one of us has a problem." With this, Peabody pitched forward into Eve's arms.

There wasn't time to clean up. After she'd hauled Peabody out of the wreckage and dumped her on the medical technicians, she had a report to relay to the officer in charge of the security team, then she fed the same data to the bomb disposal unit. Between reports she harassed the MTs about Peabody's condition and blocked their attempts to treat her to an injury scan.

Roarke was already dressed for the evening when she rushed in the door. He cut off his conversation with Tokyo on his palm link, shifted away from the team of florists currently arranging pink and white hibiscus in the foyer.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Don't ask." She raced past him and hit the stairs at a dead run.

She was out of what was left of her shirt by the time he came into the bedroom, closed the door. "I will ask."

"The bomb wasn't a dud after all." Unwilling to sit down and smear whatever was on her slacks onto the furniture, she balanced on one foot and fought off a boot.

Roarke took a deep breath. "The bomb?"

"Well, a homemade boomer. Very unreliable." She pried off the second boot, then began to peel off her torn and blackened slacks. "Guy hits a CEC two blocks from Cop Central. Idiot." She dumped the tatters on the floor, swung around to head to the bath, only to come up short when Roarke took her arm.

"Name of God." He turned her to get a closer look at the purpling bruise that spread over her hip. It was bigger than his spread hand. Her right knee was raw and there were more bruises blooming on her arms and shoulders. "You're a mess, Eve."

"You should see the other guy. Well, at least he'll get three square and a roof for a few years, courtesy of the state. I've got to get cleaned up."

He didn't release her, only shifted his gaze to hers. "I don't suppose you bothered to let the MTs work on you."

"Those butchers?" She smiled. "I'm fine, just sore. I can get a quick treatment tomorrow."

"You'll be lucky if you can walk by tomorrow. Come on."

"Roarke -- " But she winced and hobbled, and he pulled her into the bath.

"Sit. Be quiet."

"We don't have time for this." She sat, rolled her eyes. "It's going to take me a couple hours to get the stink and soot off. Christ, those boomers smell." She turned her head to sniff at her shoulder and grimaced. "Sulfur." Then she eyed him warily. "What's that?"

He approached with a thick pad soaked in something pink. "The best we can do at the moment. Stop wiggling." He laid the pad over her injured knee, holding it in place and ignoring her curses.

"That stings. Christ, are you crazy?"

"I'm beginning to think so." With his free hand, he caught her chin, carefully examined her blackened face. "At the risk of repeating myself, you're a mess. Hold that pad in place." He squeezed lightly on her chin. "I mean it."

"Okay, okay." She huffed out a breath and kept the pad over her knee as he walked back to a wall cabinet. The sting was easing. She didn't want to admit that the ripe ache in her knee was backing off. "What's in this stuff?"

"This and that. It'll ease the swelling and numb the injury for a few hours." He came back with a small tube of liquid. "Drink it."

"Uh-uh, no drugs."

Very calmly, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Eve, if you're not in pain at the moment, it's due to adrenaline. You're going to hurt, and hurt big time, very shortly. I know what it feels like to be bruised and battered all over. Now drink it."

"I'll be fine. I don't want -- " She gasped when he pinched her nose, drew her head back, and poured the liquid down her throat. "Bastard," she managed, choking and batting at him.

"That's a good girl. Now, into the shower." He walked to the glass-enclosed tube and ordered the spray at half force and a soothing eighty-six degrees.

"I'll get you for that. I don't know how, I don't know when, but I'll do it." She limped into the shower, still muttering. "Son of a bitch pours drugs down my throat. Treats me like a goddamn imbecile." The moan of relief came involuntarily as the soft water slid over her abused body.

He watched her, smiling as she braced both hands against the wall and ducked her head under the spray. "You'll want to wear something loose and floor length. Try the blue ankle sweep Leonardo designed for you."

"Oh, go to hell. I can dress myself. Why don't you stop staring at me and go order some of your minions around?"

"Darling, they're our minions now."

She bit off a chuckle and rapped her hand against the shower panel to access the 'link recessed there. "Brightmore Health Center," she ordered. "Fifth floor admissions." She waited for the connection and managed to soap up her hair one-handed. "This is Lieutenant Eve Dallas. You have my aide, Officer Delia Peabody. I want status." She listened to the standard line for approximately five seconds before she cut off the charge nurse. "Then find out, and find out now. I want her full status, and believe me, you don't want me coming down there to get it."

-=O=-***-=O=-

It took her an hour, a relatively painless hour, she was forced to admit. Whatever Roarke had made her drink didn't leave her with that helpless, floaty feeling she detested. Instead, she felt alert and only slightly giddy.

It might have been the drug that made her admit, at least to herself, that he'd been right about the dress. It slid weightlessly over her skin, concealing the bruises stylishly with its high neck, long, tapering sleeves, and draping skirt. She added the diamond he'd given her as a symbolic apology for swearing at him -- even though he'd deserved it.

With less resentment than usual, she fussed with her face, struggled with her hair. The result, she decided as she gave herself a study in the triple mirrors in the closet, wasn't half bad. She supposed she looked as close to elegant as she was ever going to get.

When she walked onto the roof terrace where the performance session of the party was to take place, Roarke's quick smile agreed with her. "There she is," he murmured and walked over to take both of her hands, bringing them to his lips.

"I don't think I'm talking to you."

"All right." He lowered his head and, mindful of bruises, kissed her lightly. "Feel better?"

"Maybe." She sighed and didn't bother to tug her hands away. "I guess I'll have to tolerate you, since you're doing all this for Mavis."

"We're doing it for Mavis."

"I haven't done anything."

"You married me," he pointed out. "How's Peabody? I heard you calling the health center from the shower."

"Mild concussion, bumps, and bruises. She was a little shocky, but she's stabilized. She went after the boomer." Remembering that moment, Eve blew out a slow breath. "It started to heat up right in her hand. No way I could get to her." She closed her eyes, shook her head. "Scared the hell out of me. I thought I'd find pieces of her everywhere."

"She's tough and smart, and she's learning from the best."

Eve opened her eyes, narrowed them. "Flattery isn't going to make me forgive you for drugging me."

"I'll find something else that will."

She surprised him by reaching up, framing his face with her hands. "We're going to talk about that, ace."

"Anytime. Lieutenant."

But she didn't smile. Her eyes only went more intense. "There's another thing we have to talk about. It's serious."

"I can see that." Concerned, he glanced around at the bustling caterers, the wait staff already lined up for their final briefing. "Summerset can handle the last of this. We can use the library."

"It's bad timing, I know, but it can't be helped." She took his hand, an instinctive gesture of support, as they headed out of the room and down the wide corridor toward the library.

Inside, he closed the door, ordered lights, then poured drinks. Mineral water for Eve. "You'll have to forgo alcohol for a few hours," he told her. "The painkiller doesn't mix well with it."

"I think I can restrain myself."

"Tell me."

"Okay." She set the glass aside without drinking, pushed both hands through her hair. "You've got a new VR unit on the market."

"I do." He sat on the arm of a leather sofa, took out a cigarette, and lighted it. "It hit a month, six weeks ago, depending on region. We've improved a number of the options and programs."

"With subliminals."

He blew out smoke thoughtfully. It wasn't difficult to read her, he thought, when you understood her. She was worried, stressed, and the soothing power of the drug couldn't overtake her in that area. "Naturally. Several of the option packages include a variety of subliminals. They're very popular." Still watching her, he nodded. "I take it Cerise had one of the new units and was using it before she jumped."

"Yeah. The lab hasn't yet been able to identify the subliminal. May turn out to be nothing, but -- "

"You don't think so," he finished.

"Something triggered her. Something triggered all of them. I'm working on confiscating the VR units owned by the other subjects. If it turns out they all owned that new model... the investigation's going to circle around your company. On you."

"I had a sudden urge to encourage self-termination?"

"I know you had nothing to do with it," she said quickly and fiercely. "I'm going to do everything I can to keep you out of it. I want -- "

"Eve," he interrupted quietly, shifted to crush out his cigarette, "you don't have to explain yourself to me." He reached in his pocket, took out his memo card, and tapped in a code. "The R and D on that model was done in two locations. In Chicago and on Travis II. Manufacturing was handled by one of my subsidiaries, again on Travis II. The distribution and shipping, on and off planet, by Fleet. The packaging through Trillium, marketing by Top Drawer here in New York. I can have all the data sent to your office unit, if that's most convenient."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop." He tucked the card away and rose. "There are literally hundreds, perhaps thousands of employees in these companies. I can certainly get you a list, for whatever good that would do." Then he paused, reached down, and rubbed a thumb over the diamond she wore. "You should know I personally worked on and approved the design, initialed the schematics. The unit's been in development for more than a year, and I spot-checked every stage at one time or another through that period. My hands are all over it."

She'd been sure of that, afraid of that. "It could come to nothing. Dickhead claims my theory of subliminal coercion to self-termination is over the edge of unlikely into the impossible."

Roarke smiled a little. "How can one trust a man called Dickhead? Eve, you used the unit yourself."

"Yeah, which also put a big wrench in my pet theory. All I got out of it was an orgasm." She couldn't quite bring off a smile herself. "I want to be wrong, Roarke. I want to be wrong and close these cases as voluntary self-terminations. But if I'm not -- "

"We'll deal with it. First thing tomorrow, I'll look into it myself." She started to shake her head, but he took her hand. "Eve, I know the drill; you don't. I know my people, at least the department heads in each stage. You and I have worked together before."

"I don't like it."

"That's a pity." He toyed with the diamond between her breasts again. "I believe I do."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Roarke sure knows how to dish a party." Mavis stuffed a deviled quail egg in her mouth and chattered over it. "Everybody, and I mean everybody's here. Did you see Roger Keene? He's like top hound at Be There Records. And Lilah Monroe? She's tearing them up with her new audience participation show on Broadway. Maybe Leonardo can charm her into using him for new costume design. And there's -- "

"Take a breath, Mavis," Eve advised as her friend babbled and continually pushed canapes into her mouth. "Adjust the speed."

"I'm so nervous." With her hands momentarily free, Mavis pressed them to her stomach -- bare but for an artistic rendering of a ripe, red orchid. "I can't level, you know? When I'm this hyped I've just gotta eat and talk. And eat and talk."

"And throw up if you don't slow down," Eve warned. She scanned the room and had to admit that Mavis was right. Roarke knew how to dish up a party.

The room glittered, and so did the people. Even the food seemed to be glossy and polished, almost too ornamental to eat, though you couldn't prove that by Mavis. Since the weather had cooperated, the roof was open, inviting in the fresh breeze and showers of starlight. One wall was filled with a view screen, and Mavis whirled and pranced over it, her music sizzling out into the room.

Roarke had been canny enough to keep the volume muted.

"I'm never going to be able to pay you back for this."

"Come on, Mavis."

"No, I mean it." After sending Leonardo a beaming smile and an exaggerated air kiss, she turned back to Eve. "You and me, Dallas, we go back awhile. Hell, if you hadn't busted me, I'd probably still be picking pockets and running the grift."

Eve chose an interesting-looking blot on a cracker for herself. "That's digging deep, Mavis."

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the facts. I did a lot to straighten myself out and change direction. I'm kind of proud of it."

Remaking ourselves, Eve thought. It could happen. It did happen. She glanced over to where Reeanna and William were chatting with Mira and her spouse. "You should be. I'm proud of you."

"But what I'm talking about is this. I want to get it out -- okay? -- before I get up there and try to blow the diamonds off the ears of this group." Mavis cleared her throat and promptly forgot the little speech she'd prepared, "Hell with it. I know you, and I really love you. Like really love you, Dallas."

"Christ, Mavis, don't start getting me all weepy. Roarke's already drugged me."

Unashamed, Mavis swiped her hand under her nose. "You'd have done this for me -- if you knew how." When Eve blinked and frowned, Mavis found her sentiment turning to amusement. "Shit, Dallas, you wouldn't have the first clue how to order up anything more complicated than soy dogs and veggie hash. Roarke's hands are all over this bash."

"My hands are all over it." Roarke's words echoed in Eve's mind and made her shudder. "Yeah, they are."

"You asked him to do it, and he did it for you."

Determined to let nothing shadow the evening, Eve shook off the dread. She shook her head. "He did it for you, Mavis."

Slowly, Mavis's lips curved and her eyes got misty again. "Yeah, I guess he did. You've got a fucking prince, Dallas. A fucking prince. I've got to go throw up now. Be right back."

"Sure." With a half laugh, Eve grabbed some fizzy water from a passing tray and headed for Roarke. "Excuse me, one minute," she said and tugged him away from a group of people. "You're a fucking prince," she told him.

"Why thank you. I think." He slid an arm around her waist, gently, put his other hand over hers that held the stem of her glass. He surprised her by moving her into a very smooth dance. "You have to use your imagination with Mavis's ... style," he decided. "But this one could almost be considered romantic."

Eve lifted a brow and tuned in to Mavis's voice rising over clashing brass. "Yeah, it's a real old-fashioned, sentimental tune. I'm a lousy dancer."

"You wouldn't be if you didn't try to lead. I decided since you weren't going to sit down and rest that battered body of yours, you could lean on me awhile." He smiled down at her. "You're starting to limp again, just a bit. But you do look almost relaxed."

"The knee's a little stiff," Eve admitted. "But I am pretty relaxed. I guess it was listening to Mavis babble. She's throwing up now."

"Lovely."

"It's just nerves. Thanks." She went with impulse and gave him one of her rare public kisses.

"You're welcome. For?"

"For making sure we're not eating soy dogs and veggie hash."

"My pleasure." He drew her closer, keeping his arms easy. "Believe me, it's my pleasure. Well, Peabody wears basic black and a mild concussion well," he noted.

"What?" Jerking back, Eve followed his gaze and spotted her aide just coming through the wide double doors and snagging a flute off a tray. "She should be flat on her back," Eve muttered and pulled away from Roarke. "Excuse me while I go put her there."

She stalked across the room, eyes narrowing as Peabody tried out a toothy smile. "Some party, Lieutenant. Thanks for the invite."

"What the hell are you doing out of bed?"

"It's just a bump on the head, and all they were doing was poking at me. I wasn't going to let a little thing like an explosion keep me from doing a party at Roarke's."

"Are you on meds?"

"Just a couple of regulation pain blockers, and -- " Her face fell when Eve snatched the champagne out of her hand. "I was just going to hold it. Really."

"Hold this," Eve suggested and shoved her water into Peabody's hand. "I ought to cart your butt right back to the health center."

"You didn't go," Peabody muttered, then lifted her chin. "And I'm off duty. On personal time. You can't order me back."

However much she sympathized and admired determination, Eve held firm. "No liquor," she snapped out. "No dancing."

"But -- "

"I hauled you out of that building today, and I can haul you out of here. By the way, Peabody," Eve added. "You could lose a few pounds."

"So my mother's always telling me." Peabody huffed out a breath. "No liquor, no dancing. Now, if you've finished with the restrictions, I'm going to go talk to somebody who doesn't know me."

"Fine. Oh, Peabody?"

Peabody turned, scowling. "Yes, sir?"

"You did good today. I won't have to think twice about going through the door with you."

As Eve walked away, Peabody gaped after her. It had been simply, even casually said, but it was the finest professional compliment she'd ever been given.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Socializing wasn't Eve's favorite pastime, but she did her best. She even resigned herself to dancing when she couldn't slide her way out of it. So she found herself being steered -- it was the way she thought about dancing -- around the floor by Jess.

"Your pal William?" Jess began.

"More Roarke's pal. I don't know him well."

"Anyhow, he had some interesting input on designing an interactive to go with this disc. Bring the audience into the music -- into Mavis."

Brow lifted, Eve glanced back to the screen. Mavis was swiveling her barely covered hips and shrieking about burning up in the fire of love while red and gold flames spurted around her.

"You actually think people would want to go in there?"

He chuckled, let his voice cruise deeper south. "Sugar, they'll trample each other to get in. And pay big for the chance."

"And if they do," she said, turning back to him, "you get a nice fat percentage."

"That's standard on development deals like this. Check with your man. He'll tell you."

"Mavis made her choice." She softened, noting that several guests were absorbed in the screen show. "I'd say she made a good one."

"We both did. I think we've got a hit," he told her. "And when we give them a taste of the show live and in the flesh -- well, if the roof wasn't already off, we'd blow it off."

"You're not nervous?" She looked at him: confident eyes, cocky mouth. "No, you're not nervous."

"I've been playing for my supper for too many years. It's a job." He smiled at her, walked his fingers casually up her back. "You don't get nervous tracking killers. Revved, right? Psyched, but not nervous."

"Depends." She thought of what she was tracking now, and her stomach fluttered.

"No, you're steel. I could see that the first time I looked at you. You don't give, you don't back off. You don't flinch. It makes your brain, well your makeup, so to speak, a fascination. What drives Eve Dallas? Justice, revenge, duty, morality? I'd say it's a very unique combination of all of those, fueled by a conflict of confidence and self-doubt. You've got a strong sense of what's right, and you're constantly questioning who you are."

She wasn't sure she liked the turn of the conversation. "What are you, a musician or a shrink?"

"Creative people study other people; and music is a science as much as an art, an emotion as much as a science." His silvery eyes stayed on hers as he guided her smoothly around other couples. "When I design a series of notes, I want it to affect people. I have to understand, even study human nature if I'm to get the right reaction. How will this make them behave, make them think, make them feel?"

Eve spared an absent smile as William and Reeanna danced by, absorbed in each other. "I thought it was for entertainment."

"That's the surface. Just the surface." His eyes were excited, gleaming with it as he spoke. "Any music hack can run a theme through a computer and come out with a competent tune. The music business has gotten more and more ordinary and predictable because of technology."

Brows lifted, Eve glanced toward the screen, and Mavis. "I'd have to say I don't hear anything ordinary or predictable here."

"Exactly. I've put in time studying how tones, notes, and rhythms affect people, and I know what buttons to push. Mavis is a treasure. She's so open, so malleable." He smiled when Eve's eyes hardened. "I meant that as a compliment, not that she's weak. But she's a risk taker, a woman who's willing to strip herself down and become a vessel for the message."

"The message is?"

"Depends on the mind of the audience. The hopes and dreams. I wonder about your dreams, Dallas."

So do I, she thought, but she met his gaze blandly. "I'd rather stick with reality. Dreams are deceptive."

"No, no, they're revealing. The mind, and the unconscious mind in particular, is a canvas. We paint on it constantly. Art and music can add such colors, such style. Medical science has understood that for decades and uses it to treat and study certain conditions, both psychological and physiological."

She angled her head. Was there another message here? "You sound more like a scientist than a musician now."

"I've blended. One day, you'll be able to pick a song personally designed for your own brain waves. The mood enhancement capabilities will be endless and intimate. That's the key. Intimacy."

She sensed he was making a pitch and stopped dancing. "I wouldn't think it would be cost effective. And research into technology designed to analyze and coordinate with individual brain waves is illegal. For good reason. It's dangerous."

"Not at all," he disagreed. "It's liberating. New processes, any sort of real progress usually starts out as illegal. As for the cost, it would be high initially, then come down as the design was adjusted for mass production. What's a brain but a computer, after all? You have a computer analyze a computer. What could be simpler?"

He glanced over at the screen. "That's the intro for the last number. I've got to check my equipment before my cue." He leaned in, kissed her cheek lightly. "Wish us luck."

"Yeah, luck," she murmured, but her stomach was knotted.

What was a brain but a computer? Computers analyzing computers. Individualized programs designed for personal brain wave patterns. If it was possible, would it be possible to add suggestive programs linked directly with the user's brain? She shook her head. Roarke would never have approved it. He wouldn't have taken such a foolish risk. But she made her way through the crowd to him, laid a hand on his arm.

"I need to ask you a question," she said quietly. "Have any of your companies been doing under-the-table research on designing VR for personal brain wave patterns?"

"That's illegal, Lieutenant."

"Roarke."

"No. There was a time when I would have ventured into any number of not essentially legal areas in business. That wouldn't have been one of them. And no," he added, anticipating her. "That VR model is universally, not individually designed. Only the programs can be personalized by the user. What you're talking about is cost prohibitive, logistically tangled, and simply too damn much trouble."

"Okay, that's what I figured." Her muscles relaxed. "But can it be done?"

He paused a moment, then lifted his shoulder. "I have no idea. You'd have to have the individual's cooperation or access to a brain scan. That also involves personal approval and consent. And then ... I have no idea," he repeated.

"If I can get Feeney alone -- " She swiveled her head, trying to find the electronics detective in the whirling crowd.

"Take the evening off, Lieutenant." Roarke slipped an arm around her. "Mavis is about to get her spotlight."

"Okay." She forced herself to push the worry to the back of her mind as Jess settled at his console and gave an introductory riff. Tomorrow, she promised herself and led the applause as Mavis spun onto the floor.

Then the worry was gone, melted away by the blast of Mavis's energy and her own wild pleasure as lights, music, and showmanship combined in a dizzy kaleidoscope.

"She's good, isn't she?" She was unaware she'd gripped Roarke's arm like a mother with a child in the school play. "Different, weird, but good."

"She's all of that." The clashing edge of notes, sound effects, and vocals would never be his music of choice, but he found himself grinning. "She's caught the crowd. You can relax."

"I'm relaxed."

He laughed and hugged her closer. "If you were wearing buttons, you'd pop them." He didn't mind the fact that he had to put his mouth on her ear for her to hear him. And since he was there, anyway, he added an inventive suggestion for after the party.

"What?" She went hot all over. "I believe that particular act is illegal in this state. I'll check my code book and get back to you. Cut it out." She hunched up her shoulder in reaction as his teeth and tongue got busy on her earlobe.

"I want you." Lust prickled over his skin like a rash, instant, itchy, immediate. "Right now."

"You can't be serious," she began, but she found he was, fiercely, when his mouth closed over hers in a wild and urgent kiss. Blood thudded her pulse to vibrant life and the muscles in her thighs went limp. "Get ahold of yourself." She managed to ease back a half inch and was breathless, shocked, and very near blushing. Not everyone's attention was focused on Mavis. "We're in the middle of an event here. A public one."

"Then let's leave." He was hard as rock, painfully ready. There was a wolf inside him, poised to lunge. "There are a lot of private rooms in this house."

She would have laughed if she hadn't felt the need vibrating from him. "Get a grip, Roarke. This is Mavis's big moment. We're not running off into a closet like a couple of randy teenagers."

"Yes, we are." Half blind, he pulled her through the crowd and out of it while she babbled in stunned protest.

"This is nuts. What are you, a pleasure droid? You can damn well hold yourself in check for a couple of hours."

"The hell with it." He yanked open the closest door and shoved her inside what was indeed a closet. "Now, goddamn it." Her back rapped up against the wall, and before she could so much as gasp, he pulled up her skirts and drove himself into her.

She was dry, unprepared, shocked. Ravaged, was all she could think as she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. He was rough, careless, and sent the bruises singing as he rammed her, over and over, into the wall. Even as she shoved at him, he pounded into her, his hands hiking up her hips, digging in and ripping a startled cry of pain from her throat.

She could have stopped him, her training was thorough. But training had dissolved into sheer feminine distress. She couldn't see his face, wasn't sure she'd recognize it if she could.

"Roarke." It was shock, bone deep, that quavered in her voice. "You're hurting me."

He muttered something, a language she didn't understand and had never heard, so she stopped struggling, gripped his shoulders, and shut her eyes to what was happening to both of them.

Still he plowed into her, hands digging into her hips to keep her open for him, his breath whistling in her ear. He took her brutally, and with none of the finesse or control that was such an innate part of him.

He couldn't stop. Even as part of his brain stepped back, appalled at what he was doing, he simply couldn't stop. The need was like a cancer eating at him and he had to sate it to survive. There was a voice somewhere in his head, greedy and gasping. Harder. Faster. More. It drove him, pushed him, until with one final vicious thrust, he emptied.

She held on. It was that or slide to the floor. He was shuddering like a man with a fever and she didn't know whether to soothe him or belt him.

"Goddamn it, Roarke." But when he pressed a hand to the wall to keep balance as he swayed, she lost any sense of insult in worry.

"Hey, what is it? How much have you had to drink, anyway? Come on, lean on me."

"No." With the violent need met, his mind cleared. And remorse was a hot weight in his belly. He shook off the dizziness and eased himself back. "Good God, Eve. Good God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Okay. It's okay." He was sheet white. She'd never seen him look even remotely ill and was terrified. "I should get Summerset, somebody. You've got to lie down."

"Stop it." He very carefully nudged away her stroking hands and stepped back until they were no longer touching. How could she bear to have him touch her? "For Christ's sake. I raped you. I just raped you."

"No." She said it firmly, hoping the tone of her voice would be as effective as a slap. "You did not. I know what rape is. What you did wasn't rape, even if it was a little overenthusiastic."

"I hurt you." When she reached out, he held up his hands to stop her. "Goddamn it, Eve, you're bruised from head to foot, and I shoved you against the wall in some fucking closet and used you. Used you like a -- "

"Okay." She stepped forward, but he shook his head. "Don't back away from me, Roarke. That's what will hurt. Don't do that."

"I need a minute." He rubbed his hands over his face. He still felt light-headed and queasy, and worse, slightly out of himself. "Christ, I need a drink."

"Which brings me back to my question. How much have you had?"

"Not enough. I'm not drunk, Eve." He dropped his hands and looked around. A closet, was all he could think. For God's pity, a closet. "I don't know what happened, what came over me. I'm sorry."

"I can see that." But she still couldn't see the whole picture. "You kept saying something. Weird. Like liomsa."

His eyes darkened. "It's Gaelic. Mine it means. I haven't used Gaelic in ... not since I was a boy. My father used it often when he was ... on a drunk."

He hesitated, then he reached out to graze his fingertips over her cheek. "I was so rough with you. So careless."

"I'm not one of your crystal vases, Roarke. I can take it."

"Not like that." He thought of the whimpers and protests of the alley whores that had come through the thin walls and haunted him when his father had bedded them. "Never like that. I never thought of you. I didn't care, and there's no excuse."

She didn't want him humble. It unnerved her. "Well, you're too busy beating yourself up for me to bother, so let's go back."

He touched her arm before she could open the door. "Eve, I don't know what happened. Literally. One minute we were standing there, listening to Mavis, and the next... it was overpowering, vicious. Like my life depended on having you. Not just sex, but survival. I couldn't control it. That's not excusing what -- "

"Wait." She leaned back against the door a moment, struggled to separate woman from cop, wife from detective. "You're not exaggerating?"

"No. It was like a fist around my throat." He managed a very weak smile. "Well, perhaps that's the wrong portion of the anatomy. There's nothing I can say or do to -- "

"Eject the guilt a minute, will you, and think." Her eyes were cold now, hard as agate. "A sudden and irresistible urge -- more a compulsion. One you, a very controlled man, couldn't control? You just pounded yourself into me with all the finesse of a sweaty celibate breaking fast with a rented sex droid."

He winced at that, felt the tear of guilt. "I'm all too aware of that."

"And it's not your style, Roarke. You've got moves, I can't keep up with all of them, but they're all slick, practiced. You may get rough, but never mean. And as one who's made love with you in about every way that's anatomically possible, I can certify that you're never selfish."

"Well." He wasn't quite certain how to react. "You humble me."

"It wasn't you," she murmured.

"I beg to differ."

"It wasn't what you've made yourself into," she corrected. "And that's what counts. You snapped off. Something inside you snapped off. Or on. That son of a bitch." Her breath shuddered out as she met Roarke's eyes, and in them she saw the dawning of understanding. "That son of a bitch has something. He was telling me while we were dancing. He was fucking bragging, and I didn't get it. But he just had to give a little demonstration. And that's what's going to hang him."

This time Roarke's grip on her arm was firm. "You're talking about Jess Barrow. About brain scans and suggestions. Mind control."

"Music should affect how people behave, how they think. How they feel. He said that to me minutes before the performance began. Cocky bastard."

Roarke remembered the shock in her eyes when he'd thrown her against the wall and driven himself into her like a battering ram. "If you're right," his voice was cool now, too cool, "I want a moment alone with him."

"It's police business," she began, but he stepped slightly closer, and his eyes were cold and determined.

"You'll give me a moment alone with him, or I'll find a way to take it. Either way, I'll have it."

"All right." She laid a hand over his, not to ease his grip but in solidarity. "All right, but you'll wait your turn. I have to be sure."

"I'll wait," he agreed. But the man would pay, Roarke promised himself, for wedging even one instant of fear and distrust into their relationship.

"I'll let the performance wind up first," she decided. "I'll interview him, unofficially, in my office downstairs, with Peabody as control. Don't make a move on him, Roarke. I mean that."

He opened the door, let her slip out. "I said I'd wait."

The music was still going strong, and it hit them with a high, gritty pitch yards before they reached the doorway. But she had only to step in and through the crowd before Jess's eyes shifted from his controls and met hers.

His smile was quick, cocky, amused.

And she was sure.

"Find Peabody and ask her to go down to my office and set up for a prelim interview." She stepped in front of Roarke, willed his gaze to move to hers. "Please. We're not talking about just a personal insult here. We're talking about murder. Let me do my job."

Roarke turned without a word. The moment she lost him in the crowd, she worked her way through to Summerset. "I want you to watch Roarke."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Listen to me." Her fingers dug through his neat jacket and into bone. "It's important. He could be in trouble. I don't want you to let him out of your sight until at least an hour after the performance. If anything happens to him, I'll fry your ass. Understood?"

Not in the least, but he did understand her urgency. "Very well." He spoke with dignity, crossed the room with grace, but his nerves were shattered.

Confident that Summerset would watch Roarke like a mother hawk, she wound her way through the audience again until she stood on the front edge of the group. She applauded with the rest, schooled herself to flash a supportive smile as Mavis wound up for the encore. And when the next round of applause rang out, she slipped toward Jess and skirted the controls.

"Quite a triumph," she murmured.

"I told you, she's a treasure." There was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he smiled up at her. "You and Roarke missed a couple of numbers."

"Some personal business," she said levelly. "I really need to talk to you, Jess. About your music."

"Glad to. Nothing I like better."

"Now, if you don't mind. Let's go someplace a little more private."

"Sure." He shut down his console, locked on the code. "It's your party."

"Damn right it is," she murmured, and led the way.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She chose the elevator, wanting to move quickly and privately. She programmed it for the short vertical glide, then the horizontal shift from wing to wing.

"I've got to tell you, you and Roarke have a fantastic place here. Just ultra mag."

"Oh, it'll do until we find something bigger." She said it dryly and refused to let his laughter grate on her nerves. "Tell me, Jess, did you decide to work with Mavis, seriously, before or after you knew the connection with Roarke?"

"I told you, Mavis is one in a million. Only had to see her a couple of times, doing a short gig down at the Down and Dirty to know we'd meld well." The grin flashed. Charming. A choirboy holding a frog under his robe. "It sure didn't hurt a thing that she had a contact like Roarke on her side. But she had to have the goods."

"But you knew about the connection before."

He moved a shoulder. "I'd heard about it. That's why I went down to see her. That kind of club isn't my usual venue. But she flashed for me. If I can move her into some hot gigs, then if Roarke, or someone of his ilk, let's say, is interested in investing in a coming act, it smooths everybody."

"You're smooth, Jess." She stepped out of the car when the doors slid open. "Real smooth."

"Like I said, I've been shaking gigs since I was a kid. I think I got it down." He looked around the corridor as she led the way. Old art, the real thing, he noted, pricey wood, carpet some craftsman had worn his fingers weaving a century before.

This was money, he thought. The kind that built empires.

At the doorway of her office, she turned. "I don't know how much he's got," she said, reading him perfectly. "And I don't really care."

The smile still in place, he lifted a brow, lowered his gaze to the fat tear-shaped diamond lying against the bodice of soft midnight silk. "But you ain't wearing paste and rags, sugar."

"I have, and I might again. And Jess?" She flicked off the coded lock. "Don't call me sugar."

Eve glided in, nodded to a puzzled but attentive Peabody. "Have a seat," she told Jess and moved directly to her desk.

"Nice milieu. Well, hi, sweetie." He couldn't for the life of him remember her name, but he beamed at Peabody as if they were old, dear friends. "Did you catch the act?"

"Most of it."

He dropped into a chair. "So, what do you think?"

"I thought it was great. You and Mavis really put on a show." She risked a smile, not at all sure what Eve wanted from her. "I'm ready to buy the first disc."

"That's what I like to hear. Can a guy get a drink in here?" he asked Eve. "I like to stay dry before a performance, and I'm more than ready to get wet."

"No problem. What would you like?"

"That champagne looked good."

"Peabody, there should be a bottle in the kitchen. Pour our guest here a glass of wine, will you? And why don't you get us some coffee?"

She leaned back and considered. Technically, she should record from this point, but she wanted a lead-in before she went on log. "Someone like you, who designs music and the atmosphere surrounding it, has to be as much technician as artist, right? That's what you were explaining to me before the performance."

"That's the way the business shakes down now, has for a lot of years." He flicked one of his beautiful hands, braceleted with gold. "I'm lucky I've got an aptitude for both and an interest. The days of plucking out a tune on the piano or playing a riff on a guitar have gone the way of fossil fuel. Almost extinct."

"Where'd you get your tech training? I'd have to say it's way above run of the mill."

He shot a fresh smile as Peabody came back with the drinks. He was comfortable, relaxed, and assumed he was in the middle of a kind of job interview. "On the job, mostly, a lot of late-night hacking. But I did a stretch of home ed with MIT."

She already knew some of the data from Peabody's make, but she wanted to lull him. "Impressive. You've made a name for yourself both in performance and design. Isn't that right, Peabody?"

"Yeah. I've got all your discs, and I'm looking forward to something new. It's been a while."

"I heard that somewhere." Eve picked up the ball Peabody was unaware she'd tossed. "Have a dry spell, Jess?"

"Not at all. I wanted to take my time perfecting the new equipment, putting together just the right elements. When I hit with the new stuff, it's going to be something no one's ever seen or heard before."

"And Mavis is like a springboard."

"In a manner of speaking. She was a lucky break. She'll showcase some of the material that wasn't right for me, and I've individualized some pieces to match her. I figure on doing some of my own sessions in a few months."

"After everything's in place."

He toasted her, sipped. "Exactly."

"You ever design soundtracks for VR?"

"Now and again. It's not a bad gig, if the program's interesting."

"And I bet you know how to lay down subliminals."

He paused, then sipped again. "Subliminals? That's straight tech."

"But you're a damn good tech, aren't you, Jess? Good enough to know computers in and out. And brains. A brain's just a computer, isn't it? Isn't that what you told me?"

"Sure." His focus was all for Eve so that he didn't notice that Peabody had come to attention.

"And you're into mood enhancements, which lead to mood shifts. Behavioral and emotional patterns. Brain wave patterns." She took a recorder out of her desk, placed it in plain sight. "Let's talk about that."

"What the hell is this?" He set down his glass, scooted to the edge of his seat. "What's the deal?"

"The deal is, I'm going to advise you of your rights, then we're going to have a chat. Officer Peabody, engage backup recording and log on, please."

"I didn't agree to a fucking interview." He got to his feet. Eve got to hers.

"That's all right. We can make it obligatory, and take you to Cop Central. There might be a wait. I haven't booked an interview room. But you won't mind spending a few hours in lockup."

Slowly, he sat again. "You turn cop fast, Dallas."

"No, I don't. I stay cop. Always. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve," she began for the recorder, and fed in time and place before reciting the revised Miranda. "Do you understand your rights and options, Jess?"

"Yeah, I get it. But I don't know what the hell this is about."

"I'm going to make that very clear for you. You are being questioned in the matters of the unresolved deaths of Drew Mathias, S. T. Fitzhugh, Senator George Pearly, and Cerise Devane."

"Who?" He looked convincingly baffled. "Devane? Isn't that the woman who jumped off the Tattler Building? What am I supposed to have to do with suicide? I didn't even know her."

"You were unaware that Cerise Devane was CEO and majority stockholder of Tattler Enterprises?"

"No, I guess I knew who she was, but -- "

"I imagine you found yourself in The Tattler from time to time during your career."

"Sure, they're always digging for dirt. They've tossed some my way. It's just part of the business." Fear had backed off and left him mildly irritated. "Look, the lady jumped. I was downtown, in session, when she took the leap. I've got witnesses. Mavis for one."

"I know you weren't there, Jess. I was. At least I know you weren't there in the flesh."

His sculpted mouth curled into a sneer. "What am I, a goddamn ghost?"

"Do you know or have you ever had contact with an autotronics tech by the name of Drew Mathias?"

"Never heard of him."

"Mathias also did a pass through MIT."

"So have thousands. I opted for in-home. I never even set foot on campus."

"And never had any contact with other students?"

"Sure I did. Over the 'link, E-mail, laser fax, whatever." He shrugged his shoulders, drummed his fingers over the top of the hand-tooled boot he'd cocked on his knee. "I don't remember any autotronics tech by that name."

She decided to change tacks. "How much work have you done on individualized subliminals?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't understand the term?"

"I know what it means." This time his shrug was jerky. "And as far as I know, it's never been done, so I don't know what you're asking me."

Eve took a chance. She looked over at her aide. "Do you know what I'm asking him, Peabody?"

"I think it's clear enough, Lieutenant." She was struggling through the mud of confusion. "You'd like to know how much work the interview subject has done on individualized subliminals. Perhaps the interview subject should be reminded that it is not currently illegal to research or have an interest in this area. Only development and implementation are against current state, federal, and international laws."

"Very good, Peabody. Does that help clear things up for you, Jess?"

The byplay had given him enough time to settle. "Sure, I'm interested in the area. Lots of people are."

"It's a little out of your field, isn't it? You're just a musician, not a licensed scientist."

It was exactly the right button. His sat up in his chair, his eyes flashing once. "I'm fully certified in Musicology. Music isn't just a bunch of notes strung together, sweetheart. It's life. It's memory. Songs trigger specific and often predictable emotional reactions. Music's an expression of emotion, desires."

"And here I thought it was just a nice way to pass the time."

"Entertainment is only a slice of the pie. The Celts went to war with bagpipes. They were as much a weapon to them as a broadax. Warring natives in Africa psyched themselves up with drums. Slaves survived on their spirituals, and men have been seducing women to music for centuries. Music plays the mind."

"Which brings us back to the question. When did you decide to take it a step further and tie in to individual brain patterns? Did you just stumble across it, sort of blind luck, while you were noodling out a tune?"

He gave a short laugh. "You really think what I do is just a slide, don't you? Just sit down, punch in some notes, and go. It's work. It's hard, demanding work."

"And you're damned proud of your work, aren't you? Come on, Jess, you wanted to tell me earlier." Eve rose, came around the desk to sit on the front edge. "You've been dying to tell me. To tell someone. What good is it, what satisfaction is there in creating something so amazing, then having to keep it to yourself?"

He picked up his glass again, ran his fingers down the long, slim stem. "This isn't exactly the way I'd pictured this." He took a sip, considered the consequences -- and the rewards. "Mavis says you can be flexible. It's not just code books and procedure with you."

"Oh, I can be flexible, Jess." When it's warranted. "Talk to me."

"Well, let's just say that if -- hypothetically -- I had worked out a technique for individualized subs, mood enhancements on a personal brain pattern, it could be big. People like Roarke and you, with your contacts and financial base, your influence, let's say, could work around a few antiquated laws and make a big pile. Revolutionize the personal entertainment and enhancement industry while you were at it."

"Is this a business offer?"

"Hypothetically," he said and gestured with his glass. "Roarke industries has the R and D, the facilities, the man power, and the credits to take something like this and run with it. And a smart cop, seems to me, could find a way to bend the law, just enough, to make it go down smooth."

"Gosh, Lieutenant," Peabody said with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Sounds like you and Roarke are the perfect couple. Hypothetically."

"And Mavis as the conduit," Eve murmured.

"Hey, Mavis is chilled. She got what she wanted. After tonight, she's going to cruise."

"And you figure that evens out using her to get to Roarke."

He moved a shoulder again. "Backs gotta be scratched, honey. I gave hers a real full treatment." The wicked amusement flashed into his eyes again. "Did you enjoy the informal demonstration of my hypothetical system?"

Not certain even her training could keep the fury off her face, she turned, slipped back behind the desk. "Demonstration?"

"The night you and Roarke came by the studio to watch the session. Seemed to me you two were pretty eager to leave, to be alone." His smile sharpened at the corners. "A little honeymoon revisited?"

She kept her hands behind the desk a moment until she could unclutch her fists. She glanced over toward the door of Roarke's connecting office, and saw with a jolt that the monitoring light blinked green over it.

He was watching, she realized. That was not only illegal, but dangerous under the circumstances. She flicked her eyes back to Jess. She couldn't afford to break rhythm. "It seems you're unusually interested in my sex life."

"I told you, you fascinate me, Dallas. You've got a mind. It's fucking steel, with all these dark spaces burned into it. I wonder what would happen if you opened those spaces. And sex is a master key." He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. "What do you dream, Dallas?"

She remembered the dreams, the sick horror of them, the night she'd watched the disc of Mavis. The disc he'd given her. Her hands trembled once before she could control them. "You son of a bitch." She rose slowly, planted her hands on the desk. "You like giving demonstrations, asshole? Is that what Mathias was to you? A demonstration?"

"I told you, I don't know who that is."

"Maybe you needed an autotron tech to perfect your system. Then you tried it out on him. You had his brain waves, so you programmed them in. Did you program in him tying his own noose and slipping it around his neck, or did you leave the method up to him?"

"You just veered way out of orbit."

"And Pearly? What's the connection there? Political statement? Were you looking ahead? You're a real visionary. He'd have tossed his weight against legalizing your new toy. Why not use it on him?"

"Hold it. Hold it." He got to his feet. "You're talking about murder. Christ, you're trying to wrap me up with murder."

"Then Fitzhugh. Did you need a couple more demonstrations, Jess? Or did you just get a taste for it? Powerful, isn't it, being able to kill without getting your hands bloody?"

"I never killed anyone. You can't wrap this on me."

"Devane was a bonus, with the media right there. You got to watch. I bet you really love to watch, don't you, Jess? I bet you got hot watching. Like you got hot thinking about where you'd push Roarke tonight with your goddamn toy."

"That's what's rocking you, isn't it?" Furious, he leaned on the desk. His smile wasn't charming now, but feral. "You want to sting me because I wired into your man. You should be thanking me. I bet the two of you fucked like wild minks."

Her hand was in a fist, her fist slamming into his jaw before her brain registered the act. He went down like a stone, face first, arms splayed, and sent her 'link flying.

"Goddamn it." Breath hitching, she uncurled her fist, clutched it again. "Goddamn it."

Peabody's voice came cool and calm through the buzzing in her ears. "Let the backup record show that subject physically threatened the lieutenant during questioning. As a result, subject lost his balance and struck his head on the desk. He appears to be momentarily stunned."

While Eve could do no more than stare at her, Peabody rose, stepped over, and dragged Jess up by the collar of his shirt. She held him there a moment, as if considering his condition. His knees sagged, his eyes rolled back white.

"That's affirmative," she stated, then dumped him into a chair. "Lieutenant Dallas, I believe your recorder has been damaged." With a brush of her hand, Peabody tipped Eve's coffee onto the unit, effectively frying its chips. "Mine is in working order and will be sufficient for reporting this interview. Are you injured?"

"No." Eve shut her eyes, snapped her control back into place. "No, I'm fine. Thank you. The interview breaks at oh one thirty-three. Subject Jess Barrow will be transported to the Brightmore Health Center for examination and treatment, and there be detained until nine hundred hours, when this interview will continue at Cop Central. Officer Peabody, please arrange for transport. Subject is to be held for questioning, charges pending."

"Yes, sir." Peabody glanced over as the door to Roarke's office slid open. It only took one look at his face to realize that there might be trouble. "Lieutenant," she began, careful to keep the recorder turned away. "I'm getting interference on my communicator, and your 'link may have been damaged when the subject knocked it to the floor. Permission to use another room to send for the MTs."

"Go ahead," Eve said and sighed as she watched Roarke come in and Peabody stride out. "You had no business monitoring this interview," she began.

"I beg to differ. I had every business." He glanced down at the chair as Jess moaned and shifted. "He's coming around. I'd like my moment with him now."

"Listen, Roarke -- "

He cut her off with one swift, ice-edged stare. "Now, Eve. Leave us alone."

That was the trouble between them, she decided. Both of them were so used to giving orders that neither of them took orders well. But she remembered the stricken look in his eyes when he'd backed away from her. They had both been used, she thought, but Roarke had been victimized.

"You've got five minutes. That's it. And I'm going to warn you right now. The record shows he's relatively undamaged. If there are marks on him, it's going to swing back on me and compromise my case against him."

His lips twitched in a bare flicker of a smile as he took her arm and led her to the door. "Lieutenant, give me some credit. I'm a civilized man." He shut the door in her face, locked it.

And, he thought, he knew how to cause great discomfort to the human body without leaving so much as a dent.

He walked over, hauled Jess out of the chair, and shook him until his eyes blinked into focus. "Awake now, are you?" Roarke said softly. "And aware?"

Sweat pooled cold at the base of Jess's spine. He was looking into the face of murder, and he knew it. "I want a lawyer."

"You're not dealing with the cops now. You're dealing with me. At least for the next five minutes. And you have no rights or privileges here."

Jess swallowed, struggled for a show of cool. "You can't lay a hand on me. If you do, it'll slap right back on your wife."

Roarke's lips curved and struck a fresh fist of terror in Jess's gut. "I'm going to show you just how mistaken you are in that."

His eyes never left Jess's face as he reached down, grabbed onto his penis, and twisted. It was some satisfaction to see every drop of blood drain out of the man's face and watch his mouth work like a guppy's as it gasped for air. With his thumb, he pressed gently on Jess's windpipe and cut off even that thin passage of air until the silver eyes bulged.

"Hell, isn't it, to be led around by the cock?" He gave one last jerk of the wrist before letting Jess collapse into the chair and curl up like a shrimp.

"Now, let's talk," he said pleasantly enough. "About private matters."

Out in the corridor, Eve paced up and down, glancing every few seconds at the thick door. She knew very well if Roarke had implemented the soundproofing, Jess could be shrieking his lungs out and she wouldn't hear.

"If he killed him ... Good God if he killed him, how was she going to handle it? She stopped, appalled, and pressed a hand to her stomach. How could she even consider it? She was duty bound to protect the bastard. There were rules. Whatever her personal feelings, there were rules.

She marched to the door, coded in, and hissed out a breath as her code was denied. "Son of a bitch. Goddamn it, Roarke." He knew her too well. With little hope, she raced down the corridor, into his office, and tried the connecting door.

Entrance denied.

She streaked to the monitor, cued up the security camera for her office, and found he'd locked her out of that as well.

"God almighty, he is killing him." She rushed the door again, beat on it uselessly with her fist. Moments later, like magic, the locks slicked back, and the door slid quietly open. She went through at a dead run and saw Roarke calmly sitting at her desk, smoking.

Her heart pounded as she looked down at Jess. He was pale as death, his pupils the size of pinpricks, but he was breathing. In fact, he was wheezing out air like a faulty temperature control.

"He's unmarked." Roarke picked up the brandy he'd poured himself. "And I believe he's begun to see the error of his ways."

Eve leaned down, peered closely into Jess's eyes, and watched him cringe back into the chair like a kicked dog. The sound he made was barely human. "What the hell did you do to him?"

He doubted Eve or the NYPSD would approve of the tricks he'd picked up in his more shadowy travels. "Much less than he deserved."

She straightened and now took a long, hard look at Roarke. He looked like a man about to entertain late night guests or chair an important business meeting. His suit was unwrinkled, his hair unmussed, his hands perfectly steady. But his eyes, she noted, were just on the down side of wild.

"Christ, you're scary."

Carefully, he set his brandy down. "I'll never hurt you again."

"Roarke." She pushed back the urge to go to him, close her arms around him. It wasn't what the moment called for, she decided. Or what he wanted. "This can't be personal."

"Yes." He drew in smoke, blew it out slowly. "It can. And is."

"Lieutenant." Peabody stepped in, her face bland. "The MTs are here. With your permission, I'll accompany the suspect to the health center."

"I'll go."