She lifted her hands, boosted up. She didn’t need to brace her foot on the wall, and had no trouble easing through the window to the alley.

  She could still hear the music, dimmer now, but still playing as she looked down the alley.

  She walked back and went inside just as the song ended.

  “Want we should play it again?” Harve asked when she stepped back into the club area.

  “No, that’s fine. You can shut it down. We’ll get out of your way. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “We’re going to stay closed tomorrow, out of respect. But Blondie has our contacts if there’s anything we can do. And when you find out that how and why, we’d sure like to know.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  She walked back to the table. “We’re clear here. We’ll give you a lift home. McNab, can you pick up the face rec from where Roarke left off?”

  “I’ll be on it.”

  Outside, she let the night air wash over her. “He had a plan. It would’ve taken him less than ninety seconds to get off the dance floor and into the men’s room after he injected her. And it’s timed,” she continued as she got in the car. “Last song before the break. After the break, the bathrooms are going to be swamped, lines into the hall.”

  “And the song’s a classic,” McNab told her. “It’s one of those that has people pouring out on the dance floor. Art said they generally play it before a break. Art’s the married one. He was on the ’link with his wife during the break. They’re expecting their second kid pretty soon. I verified that.”

  “Good. Okay, so the chances the john’s clear go up. He timed it. He’ll be a teenager or look like one. An adult would’ve stuck out, even a parent.”

  “Parents danced, too.” Peabody stifled a yawn. “But from my interviews, they stuck to the fringes, gave the kids the floor.”

  Filing that away, Eve nodded. “Slight build, shorter than me, or sloppy core. He had to work to get out the window, use his feet to boost up. I didn’t. But he knew the club well enough to know he had that route out. He knew the band well enough to know how to time the attack and the escape.

  “We can’t be sure yet if he knew the victim or just picked her out of the crowd.”

  “If he didn’t know her, what’s the motive?”

  Eve gave Peabody a shrug. “To be determined. Morgue, eight hundred sharp,” she added when Roarke pulled up at the apartment building. “Thanks for the assist, McNab.”

  “I go with She-Body.”

  He got out, then leaned in her window. “You know how Feeney feels about kid killers.”

  “I do.”

  “And how he feels about Avenue A.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’ll want a piece of this one.”

  “He’ll get it. Go to bed.”

  As Roarke drove away, she leaned back.

  “What do you think on motivation?” Roarke glanced at her. “You have a thought on it.”

  “She rebuffed him. If I’m wrong and it’s a female, then it’s some sort of crazed jealousy, or maybe, again, a brush-off. But I don’t think she knew him, or her. Him, damn it. Either way, Jenna didn’t know or feel anything toward this person.”

  “Why not?”

  “She said, ‘Asshole.’ She didn’t say, with her friends right there, ‘that asshole Bob’ or ‘that bitch Jane.’ She didn’t say, ‘That asshole Bob jabbed me.’ And she said ‘he’ when she said it to Jake. ‘He jabbed me.’ I’m saying she saw the one who did, the one who did’s a male, and she didn’t know him. Doesn’t mean he didn’t know her.

  “They could go to the same school,” she continued, “but he’s not in her circle, not on her social rung, so she doesn’t see him or notice him. There’s a pisser. Or he came ready to kill in that place, with that method, and had to pick somebody. Maybe Jenna was a type. Maybe he asked her to dance and she blew him off. And that’s a pisser.”

  “You’re a marvel.”

  “It’s just logic.”

  “It is when you lay it all out that way, yes. So you likely have a teenage boy with a homicidal grudge against either Jenna or teenage girls. One who has a slight build and is somewhere under five-nine, who can access whatever substance he used to kill.”

  “And is smart enough, organized enough to have worked out a plan.” With her eyes closed, she ran it through. “Smart enough, I think, not to have come into the club alone. He’s thinking about the cameras, so he slides in with a group. Head down, face turned away. But he didn’t come with a group so no one’s going to notice when he’s gone.”

  When she felt herself drifting off, she straightened up again. “We’re not going to lock him in with the face rec—we won’t see his face. But maybe the build and his clothes, the hair. Process of elimination. Who with that build, those clothes, that hair didn’t walk out again?”

  She huffed out a breath. “Is that going to be as complicated and time-consuming as I think?”

  “Probably more so.”

  “Well, Feeney’s going to want a piece. McNab’s not wrong. He can sure as hell have that one.”

  “No one better for it.” He glanced at her again.

  Cop adrenaline fading, he noted. When fatigue hit her and hit hard, she went so pale. At times so pale he imagined he could pass his hand through her.

  “You know it’s near to three and tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “This is not news.”

  “You could start an hour or two later in the morning.”

  “When it’s hot, you work it hot. Who caught the weekend?” Trying to pull it out of her head, she rubbed her eyes. “Who caught weekend duty? Carmichael and Santiago. Baxter and Trueheart on standby. I’ll know more after I talk to Morris, and if they’re not working one, I can pull them in if I need them.”

  When he drove through the gates, she let out a sigh. “So much for a lazy weekend at home.”

  “We had almost half of one.”

  “Next time we both have one free, let’s make sure we get a whole one. We could go to the island.”

  When he parked, he leaned over, kissed her. “The very next.”

  “Deal. Just leave the car. I’ll be back in it soon enough.”

  Inside, they walked up the stairs. “I should get up by six.”

  “Why, now? It won’t take you two hours to get dressed and get downtown.”

  “I’m too wiped to write my report tonight. And I want to open the book, put up a board. It’ll keep it clear in my head when I get to Morris.”

  “Six it is then.”

  “You don’t have to get up at six. You have a free day.”

  “To paraphrase Ian, I go with the Boss Cop. No, not to the morgue.” Since she was fading, he guided her to the bed, where the cat sprawled. “But I’ll get you up, Lieutenant.”

  “’Kay.”

  She yanked off her boots, her clothes, and would’ve fallen facedown on the bed if he hadn’t pulled the spread off first.

  She was out before he slid in beside her.

  The cat stirred enough to rearrange himself.

  Roarke brushed his lips over her hair, closed his eyes. And dropped into sleep with her.

  * * *

  At six, he woke her with coffee, and even through the grogginess, she decided he was the most magnificent human in the history of humans.

  Enough so she set the coffee aside, crooked her finger. “C’mere.”

  With her arms around his neck, she kissed him, long, slow, deep.

  “That’s exceedingly unfair when you’re soft and sleepy and naked.”

  “I know.” She dropped her heavy head on his shoulder. “For me, too, and you’re not even naked.”

  Then she pushed him back, grabbed the coffee.

  “Thanks for this. I’m going to blast myself awake in the shower. Five minutes. And for the second time in a row, I won’t bitch if you pick out some clothes.”

  He knew her idea of blasting away meant calling for the shower temp to hit close to boiling. It nearly made him shudder as he strolled to her closet and considered.

  Another hot one forecast, he thought, and opted for linen trousers in pale gray, a crisp white shirt with half sleeves, a dark gray vest, boots and belt to match, with a pale gray linen jacket if she did fieldwork and needed to cover her weapon.

  Both the vest and jacket had the Thin Shield lining, so she’d be as safe as he could make her.

  And look crisp and fresh while she went about it.

  He laid out the clothes just as she opened the door, a bit flushed from the heat of the drying tube.

  “Great, thanks. Need more.” “More” meant coffee, and she hit up the bedroom AutoChef before she dressed.

  “You’ll eat something while you work.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He only lifted his eyebrows. He’d see she had a bacon and egg pocket, with a bit of spinach she’d hardly notice.

  “What’re you going to do while I’m at Central?”

  “I imagine I’ll find something to occupy myself.”

  As she hooked on her weapon harness, she lifted her eyebrows at him. “You’re going to work, aren’t you? Maybe buy a small country.”

  “Only a small one?”

  “It’s Sunday, so on the small side.”

  “Ah, I see. Actually, I may wander out and take a look at your new property. You’ll need to think of a name for the club there. You won’t want to call it Stoner’s.”

  “That asshole. There you go. We’ll call it Stoner’s an Asshole.”

  “Truth doesn’t always ring.”

  When she grabbed the jacket, he walked out with her.

  “I don’t know how to name things.” Or actually own them, either. “You do. You name it.”

  “It’s your place.”

  “You bought it.”

  “Ah well, we’ll think of something. Why don’t you print out what you want on your board? I’ll set it up for you.”

  Grateful she didn’t have to think about owning a building, she sat at her command center, opened operations.

  She ordered the printouts, and while that worked, started her report.

  He set a plate with an egg pocket beside her unit. “Fuel, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  It smelled good. She suspected spinach, but it smelled good.

  She ate while she worked. Once she’d completed the report, she opened the murder book.

  Between the coffee, the fuel (despite spinach), and the work, she felt fully awake.

  She heard Roarke talking to the cat in the little kitchen. The cat, she thought, who’d been dead asleep when they’d left the bedroom.

  Obviously, Galahad’s superpowers included scenting food, especially bacon, regardless of the distance involved.

  She rose, studied the board. Jenna’s ID shot. Vibrant with youth and possibilities. And the crime scene stills with all that wiped away.

  She’d added the two friends, the club owners, Jake and the other band members, Nadine, and all the bits of evidence.

  The demo disc, the close-up of the needle mark, the vomit, the scuff marks, the open bathroom window.

  Now she added the timeline she’d worked out.

  Not much, not yet, but she’d get more.

  She thought of a mother’s face turning gray, of a father simply dissolving onto the floor.

  She’d get more.

  “You should add your description of him,” Roarke said from behind her.

  The cat, she thought, made more noise than the former cat burglar.

  “Speculation. But … maybe. We’ll see what we find today. I have the morgue, and I want to go through the victim’s bedroom sometime today. I’ll tag the lab to see if Harvo’s on, but it’s Sunday so not likely.”

  Sunday, she knew from experience, would be a pain in her ass on a hot day.

  “I might want to talk to her two friends again, see if either of them noticed anyone at school, or wherever they hang out otherwise. Definitely need to talk to Feeney. And Jake’s coming in this morning, which I’m betting means Nadine.”

  “She’s in love with him. It shows.”

  “Yeah.” She let out a breath. “Yeah, it shows, both ways. I just looked at the security feed, the alley door.”

  And watched a young girl die.

  “His statement’s accurate,” Eve commented. “The time’s as close as it gets. When he stepped out, when she came out. Stumbled out, just the way he said she did. He tried to help her. He did everything right. Everything he could to help her.”

  “I know. I watched it as well.”

  She turned now. “But there wasn’t anything he could do, because she was dead when she fell out that door. It was already too late to save her.”

  “I thought the same.”

  Eve shook her head. “Not think, is. I know what death looks like, and it was all over her. She never had a chance. Not once whatever was in the needle went into her. She stayed on the floor and danced another couple minutes, but she was already dead.”

  She rubbed her hands over her face. “Okay. Okay. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Tag me, will you, when you’re done for the day. Or before, if you can use me. If I’m wandering, I may wander by the Great House Project. I’ll be downtown having a look at your property in any case.”

  “All right.”

  When he kissed her goodbye, she leaned into him.

  “I probably won’t put in a full day. It’s harder to shake people loose on a Sunday.”

  “Either way, take care of my cop.”

  When she left, he turned to the cat. “What’s your Sunday look like then?”

  After a quick ribbon through Roarke’s legs, Galahad jumped on the sleep chair, stretched out.

  “Just as I expected.”

  Chapter Four

  Because the day started mild but wouldn’t stay that way, Eve kept her window open on the drive downtown. No matter what the hour, New York had its sights and sounds.

  The quick yips of a trio of cat-sized dogs prancing ahead of their human walker, who bopped behind them, probably to the beat of whatever played in her earbuds.

  The dogs had collars embedded with shiny things that shot back the sunlight like lasers. She assumed rhinestones, but hey, you never knew.

  The laser beams made her wish for her badass sunshades. Considering, she checked her jacket pockets, and yeah, there they were. Points for Roarke, she thought, and slipped them on.

  A maxibus blatted and wheezed as it pulled to a stop. Sleepy people filed off; sleepy people filed on.

  She wondered, as she often did, why sleepy people didn’t find a way to live closer to work.

  Then again, here she was, living uptown, driving downtown to the job.

  Life would throw its curveballs.

  She caught the scent of glide-cart coffee—reminiscent of burnt cardboard—ignored the sounds of horns as somebody didn’t move fast enough when a light went green. And watched a bike messenger risk life and all four limbs as he wove through building traffic. He sped through a yellow as it turned red while the pedestrian he nearly splatted at the crossing shot him the finger.

  Metal rattled as a shopkeeper lifted his metal security doors, and someone blasted thrash metal through their own open windows.

  A sidewalk sleeper, license to beg displayed, set up against a building, tossed a few coins in his bucket to seed it, and began to play a harmonica.

  One block down, a woman in a breezy summer dress and skyscraper heels strode out of the street doors of a silver tower. She slid fluidly into a sleek black limo while the doorman and the driver loaded her mountain of luggage.

  In New York, the carelessly rich and the quietly desperate breathed the same air.

  When Eve got to the morgue, she programmed a large go-cup of coffee. Carrying it with her, she entered the long white tunnel with its echoes, its scents of death and disinfectant.

  She’d made good time on her commute, so she’d arrived a few minutes early. And knowing Peabody’s aversion to watching Morris dig into the dead, she expected her partner might arrive a few minutes late.

  When she pushed through the double doors, Morris stood over Jenna Harbough. Her body lay naked, split open by his precise Y-cut.

  The music he played, for the dead as much as himself, Eve knew—Avenue A.

  “I appreciate you coming in on a Sunday morning, and brought coffee.”

  “Endless gratitude,” he said.

  Since Jenna’s blood coated his sealed hands, she set it on the counter by his sink.

  Rather than his usual suit under the protective cape, he wore jeans—black—a T-shirt—white. He’d twisted his long black hair into a single braid.

  Walking back, Eve flanked Jenna on the other side of the slab.

  “Young, pretty, a bud that will never blossom.” After removing the liver, Morris weighed it, scanned it. Behind their clear shield, his eyes held the compassion she’d assured the victim’s parents he had.

  Eve looked down at Jenna. “No external indications of illegals or alcohol abuse.”

  “And no internal indications that I’ve found. The lab will do a full tox, of course, but my preliminary conclusion is we have a healthy dead girl. Teeth, bones, skin, muscle, organs show good nutrition and exercise. Her hymen’s intact, so any sexual activity didn’t include penetration.

  “Calluses on her fingertips. Guitar player?”

  “I can’t say, but music was her thing.”

  “You’ll see a slight blister on the side of her left pinkie toe. My conclusion—new shoes. Otherwise, only the needle mark on her left biceps.”

  “She had two friends with her. Both of them state they were dancing together near the stage. The victim grabbed her arm, said somebody jabbed her.”

  “I’d take that as truth.”

  He walked back to the sink to rinse his hands, then picked up the coffee.

  “Ah, is there a richer nectar of all the gods and goddesses?” He drank, then set the cup down again. “Jabbed is an accurate word. The needle went in hard—enough that the impact caused mild bruising before death. And, from your on-site, began infection in only minutes. Not just a needle, Dallas, a dirty one. A dull one.”

  Rather than microgoggles, he used the scanner, brought the wound on-screen, enlarged.