“She pointed the finger pretty hard at Lane,” Reo commented. “Which, in turn, points a finger at motive. The timing’s tight—her exit, and time of death—but it’ll hold. She was on scene through false pretenses, and for several hours. Round two could break the rest.

  “I’ll see if I can get a line on who she pulls as PD.”

  “I’ll send you my evaluation after I’ve reviewed the full interview,” Mira added.

  They split off, with Roarke falling into step with Eve. “I saw a bit more than Mira,” he told her. “The woman’s a player. A successful grifter needs to believe his own bollocks to make others believe. She’s managed to stay out of the nick for the most part because she knows how to play the game.”

  “She fell for Peabody’s tactic.”

  “She did, as Peabody reinforced her own beliefs, and very cleverly,” he added. “Here, she likely thought, is someone who understands, while also thinking, as a solid con requires, ah, here’s a mark I can use.”

  “Right.” She walked into her office and straight to her board. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The frustration she’d struggled to shove away shoved back. Hard. “I have to go back to the beginning. Everything starts at the damn beginning.”

  “True enough.” He programmed them both coffee.

  “She soaks a trio of idiots for fifteen K but spends close to two weeks living in the next step up from a craphole. She spends hours scrubbing up her mortal enemy’s home, and all so she can drink some champagne, eat some caviar, and walk out with a statue with someone else’s name on it?”

  She whirled on Roarke. “That’s not just crazy, it’s stupid.”

  “It’s difficult to disagree. Are you worried you won’t break her?”

  “She lies, that’s how she lives. But there was truth in there. Peabody slid the truth right out of her.” After rubbing at her eyes, Eve stared at the board again. “Back to the damn beginning. Meanwhile I have to give another time-waster of a media briefing because my victim’s name sells clicks and views.”

  Resentment for that bubbled up with frustration as she turned to him again. “What are you doing here?”

  “At the moment, listening to you vent.”

  “Here,” she said, pointing to the floor between them. “Now.”

  “I had a meeting in the area.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been saying that a lot the last few weeks. What the hell, Roarke?”

  His eyebrows winged up, but he spoke calmly. “Is there a problem with me observing a part of your interview in this case, Lieutenant?”

  “If I say there is, after you put in your own time to contribute to the investigation, I’m an asshole. And that’s not what I’m doing or saying anyway.”

  And wouldn’t, she thought as she dragged a hand through her hair.

  “I’m asking what the hell. You pop up in here at least once a week lately. Why aren’t you furthering your plans for world domination or finding a way to buy Scandinavia?”

  “Those might be considered one and the same.”

  “I mean it. It’s a valid question, and I want a straight answer.”

  “All right then. I think you could use a boost.”

  “I don’t need a damn booster.”

  “Not that kind of boost.” He set his coffee aside. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “What? Wait a minute. Where—”

  But he just kept walking.

  “Sometimes marriage is Crazytown.” She dropped down in her desk chair, stared at the board. “Crazytown.”

  She closed her eyes a moment, tried her meditation mantra—Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this—to clear her mind. Sometimes it worked.

  The beginning. And if Debra’s reasons for getting into the penthouse, the party, taking an award—a trophy, a symbol—were to settle the score, a grudge against Lane, Rose Bernstein’s death marked the beginning.

  Or at least one point on the circle.

  If Rose lives, maybe she wins the Tony—maybe not. Maybe she becomes a big celebrity, or burns out, or ODs at another time. But.

  If she’d lived another day, another week, another month, everything that followed would follow from there. A different circle.

  If Lane were the target, as the evidence, logic, and probability deemed, the choice of time and place for the murder put the play—the original and the revival—dead center of the circle.

  Rose Bernstein connected to Lane, to Minerva Novak, to Gary Proctor, and to Debra Bernstein. And who on that short list was on scene? Take off Gary Proctor. Who on the shorter list had no legitimate business being there?

  Only one. Debra Bernstein. A liar, a grifter, a thief.

  Eve pushed up, paced as she went over the interview in her head, picked at details.

  Annoyed with herself, she sat again, began to make fresh notes.

  And Roarke walked back in carrying a large box.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your anniversary gift.”

  “Jesus. It’s not our anniversary yet, and I’m not looking for a present. I’m maybe going off on a tangent here,” she added, shoving at her hair again. “I just need to lay it out and see.”

  “Open the bloody box, Eve.”

  “Damn it. Fine.” She shoved up, yanked off the top. And stared inside. “What the hell? I’m wearing the magic lining.” She held her jacket open to prove it. “It’s not like somebody tries to stun or knife me every shift. Why a big-ass box of more?”

  “These aren’t for you to wear, Lieutenant. They’re for your bullpen. This group at least.”

  “I don’t—” She could only stare at him. “What?”

  “We’ve been working with your commander and Tibble, and others, on this project for a while. The one you’re wearing was the prototype, and once we had the tech, we’ve been able to begin production, which took a bit of time, as people will come in different sizes and shapes. It’ll take a bit more time to produce enough to outfit the entire NYPSD. After some … negotiation, it was agreed to begin with Homicide, with your bullpen.”

  “Negotiation.”

  “It’s a happier word than ultimatum. Roarke Industries will donate the Thin Shield—the brand name—to the NYPSD at no cost, with the agreement your division gets the first produced.

  “Happy anniversary—a bit ahead of schedule.”

  She walked away from him; she had to. She walked away to rest her forehead on the glass of her skinny window.

  “Every time I think I have you, have most of all this figured out, you throw in a curve. You flatten me. You just … flatten me.”

  “You wear that under your jacket for me. You wear it primarily so I’ll worry less. You’re in charge of everyone out there, people I’ve come to know and care for through you. This makes them a bit safer, and you’ll worry less.”

  “They’re cops. The job means—”

  “I know what it means. To you, to those under your command, to others I know here. I can’t and won’t say it means to all with a badge what it does to you, to them. For some it’s only about power and a license to wield it how they choose. I’ve known too many of that ilk to say otherwise.”

  He did. He did. And that part caught in her throat.

  “But you’ll outfit the entire department.”

  “I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to comb through and judge the deserving. I married a cop, and she works for the NYPSD. Whitney cleared you to distribute. They’re labeled with name and rank.”

  She turned back to him, her eyes brimming with the emotion that flooded through her. “There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that could mean more to me than you knowing what this means to me.”

  She went to him then, pressed her face to his shoulder as his arms came around her.

  “Absolutely nothing,” she murmured. “I can’t get the words out.”

  “The ones you did worked very well.”

  She lifted her head, framed his face in her hands. “Thank you.”

  When she kissed him, it was soft.

  “Aww,” Peabody said when she came to the doorway. “And oops.”

  “Peabody,” Eve said, her eyes still on Roarke’s. “I need everyone who’s not in the field in the bullpen asap.”

  “Um, sure. Okay.”

  When Peabody hurried off, Roarke kissed Eve again. “Let me know if you manage another round with your suspect and will run late.”

  “Doubtful on the second round, but I have some things to work out in my head. What do you call the center of a circle?”

  “The center.”

  “Really? No fancy word for it? How about the…” She drew a circle in the air.

  “I think you’re meaning circumference, the distance around it. Or you can think of it opened and straightened into line segments and—”

  “That. That’s what I’m trying to see.”

  “Then you could call it as the limit of the perimeters of—”

  “Stop.” She actually put her hands over her ears. “You’re about to math stress me. It’s the straight lines, point by point, and bent into the circle. I have to work on that.”

  “Good luck with it. I’m going to swing by Mavis’s, since I’m this close. I’ll let you get on with all of it.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Grab the box.”

  “I’d as soon—”

  “I know what you’d as soon. You’re not the only person who knows the person they married. So too bad. Consider this a part of the gift.”

  “That’s a bit underhanded,” he said, but picked up the box.

  Thinking of circles, of beginnings, she walked out to the bullpen.

  “Heads-up. This division is the first recipient of Thin Shield body armor.” She opened her jacket. “If you have any questions about this new safety issue, you can ask the guy here who came up with it. I can tell you—from personal experience—it stops a sharp, a stun, and a bullet. It’s lightweight and can—and will—go under your jacket just like your weapon, or your uniform top. Chief Tibble and Commander Whitney have accepted this donation to Homicide initially, and the whole of the NYPSD to follow, from Roarke Industries. I gratefully accept same as Lieutenant of this division.

  “Detective Jenkinson, would you see these are distributed? They’re labeled by name and rank. And see that those for any officers in the field go into the locker until such time as they can be distributed.”

  “Yes, sir.” He pushed up from his desk. “I got something to say first on behalf of every cop in this bullpen, unless they’re a stupid son of a bitch. There’s a reason we pick up a badge and do the job, and it’s right up there.”

  He pointed to the motto posted over the break-room door.

  NO MATTER YOUR RACE, CREED, SEXUAL ORIENTATION, OR POLITICAL AFFILIATION, WE PROTECT AND SERVE,* BECAUSE YOU COULD GET DEAD.

  *EVEN IF YOU WERE AN ASSHOLE.

  “Not everybody gets that. Not everybody with a badge gets it, either, and fuck every one of them. It means something when somebody not only gets it but gives a rat’s ass.”

  He walked forward, took the box. Then passed it to Eve before holding out a hand for Roarke’s.

  “Thanks for getting it, for not being a stupid son of a bitch, and giving a lot more than a rat’s ass.”

  “You’re welcome on all counts.”

  Since it was closest, Jenkinson set the box on Peabody’s desk, opened it, pulled out the first clear-wrapped vest. “Yo, Santiago, come get your prize.”

  “I’ll just be on my way,” Roarke began.

  “Stand where you are, ace.”

  Santiago walked to Roarke first, held out a hand. “What Jenkinson said.”

  And so followed every cop in the room.

  * * *

  It took time, but Eve judged the time well worth it. Back at her desk, she looked at her notes—not really fresh, considering.

  Did she see another pattern just because, or was it there? And where did you go if and when you thought you saw another pattern, but it made no damn sense?

  You followed it, she told herself, and began to.

  Circles, centers, the points that made a straight line before it evolved into the curve or arc or whatever the hell that brought it all together into that circle.

  Had to follow it through, she decided. Or more accurately, backtrack.

  Even as she rose, Reo hotfooted it into her office.

  “Son of a bitch! Coffee. I’ve got approximately four minutes for coffee.”

  She didn’t wait for Eve’s go-ahead but hit the AC.

  “Bernstein didn’t pull a PD.” Reo, the picture of irate in her rosy suit and fluffy blond hair, gulped coffee. “Damn. Hot. Shit! She hooked Carlton J. Greene.”

  Eve knew the name. Cops and prosecutors knew the name Carlton J. Greene, the diamond standard of criminal defense attorneys renowned for his dogged and dignified style, dealmaking, and record of acquittals.

  “He retired. He retired like four, maybe five years ago.”

  “Well, he’s come out of retirement for this.” Reo gulped more coffee, more cautiously this time. “And he’s pushed for a bail hearing now. Pretty much now. And whether it’s our bad luck or he found a way to fix it, we’ve got Judge Pointer.”

  “Ah, fuck me.”

  “I’ll fight it. Bernstein’s got priors, a history, she was in possession of stolen property, false identification, and is, for good reasons, our primary suspect in Brant Fitzhugh’s murder.”

  Reo let out a hiss, a sigh, finished the coffee. “But it’s Pointer, and she loves to strap ’em, track ’em, and spring ’em. She’ll set a high mark for bond, but—”

  “If Bernstein found a way to get Greene—who doesn’t do pro bono—out of retirement, she’s got someone with deep pockets fronting her.”

  Eve turned to her board, decided she had a very good idea on who owned those pockets.

  “I’ve got to get to court. I’ll fight it,” Reo repeated, “but I hate to say, I’m going to lose. I’ll make it sting.” Her eyes slitted. “I can make it sting, and ensure Bernstein reports here for further questioning tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll clear her hotel room, and I’ll put a couple of men on the building. It’s not a cell, but it’s not paradise, either.”

  “Carlton J. Greene.” Reo said the name like an oath and hotfooted it out again.

  Eve snarled at Maeve Spindal’s photo on her board. “It’s going to be you. Just another way to stick it to Eliza Lane. One more way.”

  She hit the interoffice comm. “Peabody!”

  Since she wouldn’t make it back to the office, Eve copied her notes as Peabody hurried in.

  “They’re going to spring Bernstein on bail—”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Carlton J. Greene.” Before Peabody’s time, Eve realized. “High-dollar, high-acquittal-rate defense—and I’m putting my money on Spindal arranging it. And it’s going before Judge Pointer.”

  “Oh hell, not Punt ’em Pointer.”

  “Have Bernstein’s hotel room cleared, and assign two uniforms to sit on the building. Four-hour shifts—I want them sharp. She’ll have a tracker, but I wouldn’t bet on her not getting around it.”

  “And she’s good with wigs and makeup.”

  “Fill them in, and get them over to the West End Hotel. I want them on it before she goes back.”

  “I’ll put Carmichael and Shelby on the first shift. Why the hell would Spindal dump that kind of money into this?”

  “Circles. She’s got it in for Lane, this is a way to give Lane a nice slap. It’s only money. I’m going to go inform her, work from home.”

  “Media briefing.”

  “Yeah, that’s on you.”

  A measurement for the level of shock and horror on Peabody’s face didn’t exist. “Dallas!”

  “You can handle it. Contact Kyung, tell him I’m in the field, notifying Lane the primary suspect is about to make bail. And pursuing a new angle.”

  “But—”

  “Then read my notes on the new angle.”

  “There’s a new angle?”

  “Circles don’t have angles, do they? A new … point of reference or whatever. Go.”

  Eve beat her out of the room, out of the bullpen, and hit the glides.

  She pulled out her ’link to start the ball rolling.

  “Mr. Proctor,” she said the minute his face came on-screen. “This is Lieutenant—”

  “Dallas. I recognize you. I spoke with Detective Peabody before.”

  “Yes, and I’d like to follow up with you. Now, if you’re available.”

  “Sure. Corrine! Turn down the music. Sorry—kids. How can I help?”

  “I’d like to do this in person. I can come to you.”

  “Oh.” Obviously distracted, he looked around. “Sure. I honestly don’t know what else I can tell you, and I have to be at the theater in a couple hours.”

  “It won’t take that long. I’m on my way now.”

  She banged down the steps to the garage.

  And if this turned out to be a waste of time, she’d make it up later.

  As she pushed through traffic, she tagged Roarke.

  “I’m probably going to be late—said I’d let you know.”

  “All right. Round two?”

  “No, it looks like Bernstein’s going to make bail.”

  He said nothing for a moment. “What a strange system runs between law and order.”

  “It’s the one we’ve got. I need to talk to some people, and notify Lane so she’ll take precautions.”

  “Do you think Bernstein will try again?”

  “I don’t. She may try to rabbit, but I’ve got cops on her building. She’s too fond of her own skin to try again at this point. Which is why…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m still working it out, probably chasing the wild duck.”

  “Goose. I’m just home myself. Can I help you?”

  “No, no thanks. I just want to reel this out, I guess. I’ll see you when I get there.”

  She worked her way up to Proctor’s building, a nice faded brick on the north edge of Chelsea. Since parking looked hopeless, she considered doubling it, then pulled into a No Parking zone in front of a recycler.