She'd gotten through the entire evening without killing
anyone. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, cop to the bone, figured
the restraint showed enormous strength of character.
Her day had gone smoothly enough. A morning court
appearance that had been as routine as it was tedious,
paperwork both extensive and mind-numbing. The single case
she'd caught had involved pals and their dispute over who
had dibs on the last of the illegals-a party mix of Buzz,
Exotica, and Zoom-they'd been toking on while lazing
around on the roof of an apartment building on the West
Side.
The dispute had been resolved when one of the afternoon
partyers had taken a header off the roof, clutching the
last of the illegals in his greedy fist.
He probably hadn't felt much, even when he'd splatted onto
Tenth Avenue, but it sure as hell had broken the party
mood.
Witnesses, including an uninvolved Good Samaritan from a
neighboring building who'd called in the nine-one-one, all
stated that the individual who'd been scooped off the
sidewalk and into a bag had leaped of his own volition
onto the roof ledge, danced an energetic keep-away boogie,
lost his precarious balance, and taken flight with a
giggling wee-haw.
Much to the surprise-and possible entertainment-of the
afternoon passengers on an airtram who'd also witnessed
the last dance of one Jasper K. McKinney.
One inappropriately delighted tourist had managed to
capture the entire incident on his pocket vid.
It all jibed, and the books would close on Jasper as death
by misadventure. Unofficially, Eve labeled it death by
stupidity, but there wasn't a place on the sheet for that
particular observation.
As a result of Jasper and his eight-story dive, she'd
clocked out of Cop Central barely an hour past end-of-
duty, only to get bogged down in ugly midtown traffic
because the temporary vehicle some sadist in Requisitions
had tossed at her limped along like a blind, three-legged
dog.
She had rank, for God's sake, and was entitled to a decent
ride. It wasn't her fault she'd had two units destroyed in
two years. Maybe she'd forget strength of character and go
maim somebody in Requisitions in the morning.
It sounded like fun.
And after she'd gotten home-okay, almost two hours late-
she'd had to transform herself from kick-ass murder cop to
fashionable corporate wife.
She was a good cop, she reminded herself, but more than a
little shaky in the corporate wife arena.
She supposed she'd been fashionable, since her husband had
the entire getup-down to the underwear-set out for her.
Roarke knew clothes.
She just knew she was wearing something green with
sparkles all over it, and where it wasn't green and
sparkly, it showed a lot of skin.
There hadn't been time to argue about it, but only to dive
into the outfit and shove her feet into shoes-also green
and sparkly. With high enough, needle-thin heels, she'd
been nearly eye to eye with her man.
It wasn't a hardship to be eye to eye with Roarke. Not
when his were that wild, unearthly blue in a face drawn by
artistic angels. But it was tough being social with
strangers when you were worried you might tip over and
fall on your ass any second.
But she'd gotten through it. Through the quick-change, the
quick shuttle trip from New York to Chicago, through the
cocktail hour where her brains were nearly bored to suet
despite truly excellent wine, and the corporate dinner
with Roarke entertaining about a dozen clients, with her
playing hostess.
She wasn't quite sure what kind of clients they were since
Roarke had his fingers in every pie known to man or beast,
so she didn't attempt to keep up. What she did know was
that most of them could take the prize for most tedious
during the four-hour ordeal.
But there had been no casualties.
Points for her.
What she wanted now was to get home, get out of the
sparkly green thing, and fall into bed to sleep for the
six hours she'd have before the clock started ticking
again.
The summer of 2059 had been long, hot, and bloody. Fall,
with its cooler temperatures, was coming. Maybe people
wouldn't be as inclined to kill one another.
But she doubted it.
She'd barely settled into her seat on the plush, private
shuttle when Roarke lifted her feet into his lap and
slipped off her shoes.
"Don't get any ideas, pal. When I finally get out of this
dress, I'm not getting back in."
"Darling Eve." His voice was a purr that echoed of
Ireland. "That's the sort of statement that gives me
ideas. However lovely you look in that dress, you'd look
even lovelier out of it."
"Forget it. No way I'm dragging this thing back on, and
I'm surely not getting out of this shuttle wearing what
you laughingly call underwear. So just...Oh, sweet baby
Jesus."
Her eyes crossed, then did a slow roll to the back of her
head when he pressed his thumbs into her arch.
"I owe you a foot rub, at the very least." He smiled as
she let her head fall back and moaned. "For services above
and beyond. I know you detest the sort of thing we did
tonight. And I appreciate you not pulling out your weapon
and stunning McIntyre over the canapés."
"The guy with the big teeth who laughed like a donkey,
right?"
"That would be McIntyre. He's also a very important
account." He lifted her left foot, kissed her toes.
"So thanks."
"It's okay. Goes with the package."
Hell of a package, she thought, studying him through
barely open eyes. All gorgeously wrapped six Feet two
inches of him. Not just the lean, muscled build or the
heart-stopping face framed with the sweep of black silk
hair. But the brains, the style, the edge. The whole shot.
And best of all, he not only loved her, but he got her. Of
all the things they fought about-and it was never hard to
find something-they never butted heads over this.
He never expected any more of her in the corporate wife
area than she could give. A lot of people would, and she
got that. Roarke's enterprises included holdings,
properties, factories, markets, and God knew, on and off
planet. He was absurdly rich, with all the power that went
with it. A lot of men in his position would expect a
spouse to be at their beck, to drop everything and drape
themselves over his arm at a moment's notice.
He didn't.
For every business event or social occasion she managed to
attend as his wife, there were probably three she missed.
Moreover, there were countless times he arranged his
schedule to suit hers, or put in time as consultant on a
case.
In fact, when she thought about it, he made a much better
cop's husband than she made corporate wife.
"Maybe I owe you a foot rub," she considered. "You're a
pretty good deal."
He skimmed a finger down her foot, from toes to heel. "I
certainly am."
"But I'm still not getting out of this dress." She scooted
down in her seat, closed her eyes. "Wake me up when we
land."
She'd only started to drift when the communicator in her
evening bag signaled. "Oh, come on." She didn't open her
eyes but reached out, clamped a hand on the bag. "What's
our ETA?"
"About fifteen."
With a nod, she pulled out the communicator and
engaged. "Dallas."
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to Belvedere
Castle, Central Park. Officers on scene. Homicide, single
victim.
"Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I'll meet her on scene.
My ETA is thirty minutes."
Acknowledged. Dispatch out.
"Shit." Eve dragged a hand through her hair. "You can dump
me and go on."
"I dislike dumping my wife. I'll go with you and wait."
She scowled down at the fancy dress. "I hate going to
scenes in these getups. I hear about it for weeks."
It was worse because she had to put the shoes back on, and
then navigate in them over the grass and onto the paths of
the city's greatest park.
The castle sat at the highest point of the park, with its
skinny tower rising up into the night sky and the rocky
ground giving way to the lake at its feet.
It was a pretty enough spot, she supposed, for tourists to
take their snaps and vids during the day. Once the sun
set, areas like this were the natural habitat of the
street sleepers, chemi-heads, unlicensed companions on the
troll, and those with nothing better to do than look for
trouble.
The current city administration made a lot of noise about
keeping the parks and monuments clean. And to their credit
they even tossed money at the process with some
regularity. There would be volunteers as well as city
workers combing the park for litter, blasting off
graffiti, sprucing up gardens and such.
Then everyone would get cozy and comfortable and put their
efforts into other matters until it all went to hell
again.
At the moment it was in decent shape with hardly enough
litter to make the predawn cleanup crews work themselves
into a lather.
With Roarke beside her, she strode as best she could
toward the barricades the cops had already put in place.
The castle was lit up like day with crime-scene lights.
"You don't have to wait," she told him. "I can catch a
ride."
"I'll wait."
Rather than argue, she shrugged and pulling out her badge,
went through the barricades.
No one made any comments about the dress or shoes. She'd
figured her rep for ass-kicking would have kept the
uniforms quiet, but it surprised her not to detect a
single grin or snicker behind her back. It surprised her
more when her partner stepped toward her without a smart
remark on her wardrobe.
"Dallas. It's bad."
"What've we got?"
"Female, caucasian, about thirty. I got the scene
recorded. I was about to run her for ID when they told me
you'd arrived on scene." They walked together, Peabody in
her comfortable airskids, Eve in the arch-killing
heels. "Sexual homicide. Raped and strangled. But he
didn't stop there."
"Who found her?"
"A couple of kids. Jesus, Dallas." Peabody stopped a
moment, stood in her hastily thrown-on clothes, rubbing a
hand over her tired face. "Snuck out of the house, thought
they'd have a little adventure. Sure as hell got more than
that. We've contacted the parents and child services.
We've got them in a black-and-white."
"Where is she?"
"Down there." Peabody led the way, then pointed.
She lay on the rocks, just above the dark, still water of
the lake. She wore nothing but what looked to be a red
ribbon tied around her neck. Her hands were clasped
together between her breasts, as if in prayer, or plea.
Her face was smeared with blood. Blood, Eve thought, that
had spilled out of her when he'd taken her eyes.
She had to ditch the shoes or risk breaking her neck.
Using the can of Seal-It from the field kit Peabody handed
her, she coated her hands, her bare feet. Even so, it
wasn't an easy climb down in the party dress, and she
imagined she looked completely ridiculous, completely
uncoplike sparkling her way over rocks toward a body.
She heard something rip, and ignored it.
"Oh, man." Peabody winced. "You're going to ruin that
dress, and it's totally iced."
"I'd give a month's pay for a goddamn pair of jeans and a
normal shirt. A pair of fucking boots." Then she put it
out of her mind, set her feet solidly, and turned to the
body.
"Didn't rape her down here. There's going to be a
secondary scene. Even a lunatic doesn't rape a woman on a
heap of rocks when there's all this grass. Raped her
somewhere else. Killed or incapacitated her somewhere
else. Had to carry her down here. Had to have some muscle
and bulk to manage that-unless there was more than one of
them. She's what, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds
anyway. Deadweight."
More to protect the scene than the dress, Eve hitched the
skirt up. "Let's get an ID on her, Peabody. Find out who
she is."
While Peabody used the Identi-pad, Eve studied the
position of the body. "Posed her. Praying? Begging?
Resting in peace? What's your message?"
She crouched to examine the body. "Visual evidence of
physical and sexual assault. Facial bruises, torso,
forearms-those look defensive. She's got some matter under
her nails. Tried to fight, scratched at him. It's not
skin. Looks like fibers."
"Her name's Elisa Maplewood," Peabody said. "Central Park
West address."
"Not so far from home," Eve stated. "She doesn't look
uptown. No pedicure. Hands aren't smooth and pampered. Got
calluses."
"Lists employment as a domestic."
"Yeah, that's more like it."
"She's thirty-two. Divorced. Dallas, she's got a four-year-
old kid. A daughter."
"Oh, hell." Eve drew it in, then set it aside. "Bruises on
her thighs and the vaginal area. Red corded ribbon around
her throat."
It was dug into her skin so the bruised flesh puffed
around it, then the tails draped down to her breasts.
"Time of death, Peabody?"
"Getting it." Peabody drew back the gauge, studied the
readout. "Twenty-two twenty."
"About three hours ago. And the kids found her?"
"Just after midnight. First on scene responded, dealt with
the kids, took a visual from above, and called it in at
quarter to one."
"Okay." Steeling herself, she took the microgoggles,
slipped them on, then bent over the ruined face. "Took his
time here. Didn't hack at her. Neat, precise cuts. Almost
surgical, like he was doing a fucking transplant. So the
eyes were what he was after. They were the prize. The
beating, the rape, those were just the prelude."
She eased back and took off the goggles. "Let's turn her,
check the back."
There was nothing but the darkened flesh from the settling
of blood, and what Eve identified as grass stains on the
buttocks and down the thighs.
"Came at her from behind, that's what he did. But it
didn't matter to him if she saw him. Knocked her down-
sidewalk or pavement. No, gravelly path. See the scrapes
on her elbows? Smacks her around. She tries to fight him
off, tries to scream. Maybe she does scream, but he's
hauling her away, somewhere he can have his fun without
anyone trying to interfere. Drags her, across the grass.
Beats her into submission, rapes her. Ties the cord around
her neck, kills her. When that part of the job's over,
it's time for the real business."
Eve replaced the goggles. "Strip off what's left of her
clothes, take her shoes, anything else she was wearing.
Jewelry, anything that individualizes her. Carry her down
here. Pose her. Take the eyes-carefully. Check the pose,
make any necessary adjustments. Wash off all that blood in
the lake if you want. Clean up, take your prize, and be on
your way."
"Ritual killing?"
"His ritual anyway. They can bag her," Eve said as she
straightened. "Let's see if we can find the kill site."
Roarke watched her slide her feet back into the shoes.
She'd have been better off barefoot, he mused, but that
wasn't an option the lieutenant would consider.
Despite the heels, the glamorous dress-worse for wear now-
the glitter of diamonds, she was every inch the cop. Tall,
lean, steady as the rocks she'd just climbed on to view
some new horror. You wouldn't see the horror in her eyes,
those long, golden brown eyes. She looked pale in the
harsh lights, and the glare of them only accentuated her
sharp features. Her hair, nearly the same color as those
eyes, was short, choppy, and mussed now from the breeze
off the water.
He watched her stop, hold a brief conversation with a
uniform. Her voice would be flat, he knew, and brisk, and
reveal nothing of what she felt.
He saw her gesture, and saw the stalwart and more
comfortably dressed Peabody nod. Then Eve was peeling off
from the group of cops, and heading back to him.
"You're going to want to go on home," she told him. "This
is going to take some time."
"I suspect it will. Rape, strangulation, mutilation." He
lifted a brow when her eyes narrowed. "I keep my ear to
the ground when it involves my cop. Can I help?"
"No. I'm keeping civilians-even you-out. He didn't kill
her down there, so we need to find where he did. I
probably won't make it home tonight."
"Would you like me to bring you, or send you, a change of
clothes?"
Since even with his amazing powers, he couldn't just snap
his fingers and put her in boots and trousers, she shook
her head. "I've got spare stuff in my locker at Central."
She glanced down at the dress, sighed at the smears of
dirt, the small tears, the stains from body fluid. She'd
tried to be careful, but there you go, and God knew what
he paid for the damn thing.
"Sorry about the dress."
"It's not important. Get in touch when you can."
"Sure."
She struggled-knew he knew she struggled-not to wince when
he skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin, when he
leaned down and brushed his lips to hers. "Good luck,
Lieutenant."
"Yeah. Thanks."
As he walked back to the limo, he heard her raise her
voice. "Okay, boys and girls, fan out. Teams of two.
Standard evidence search."
He wouldn't have carried her far, Eve deduced. What would
be the point? The added time, trouble, the additional risk
of being seen. Still, they were talking Central Park, so
it wasn't going to be quick and easy unless they ran into
incredible luck.
She did, inside of thirty minutes.
"Here." She held up a hand to stop Peabody, then
crouched. "Ground's torn up some. Hand me the goggles.
Yeah, yeah," she said after she'd strapped them on. "We
got some blood here."
She went down on hands and knees, her nose nearly to the
ground, like a hound scenting prey. "I want this area
cordoned off. Call the sweepers. I want to see if they can
find any trace. Look here."
She got tweezers out of the field kit. "Broken fingernail.
Hers," she decided when she held it up to the
light. "Didn't make it easy for him, did you, Elisa? You
did what you could."
She bagged the nail, then sat back on her heels.
"Dragged her over the grass. You can see where she tried
to dig in. Lost a shoe. That's why she's got grass stains
and dirt on one foot. But he went back for it. Took her
clothes with him."
She pushed to her feet. "We'll check bins in a ten-block
radius in case he dumped them. They'll be torn, bloody,
dirty. We'll see if we can get a description of what she
was wearing, but even without it, we'll look. Kept them
though, didn't you?" she murmured. "Kept them as a
memento."
"She lives a couple blocks from here," Peabody
commented. "Grabbed her close to home, dragged her here,
did the job, then carried her over to the dump site."
"We'll canvass. Let's get this coordinated, then take her
residence."
Peabody cleared her throat, studied Eve's dress. "You're
going like that?"
"Got a better idea?"