Unless, whoever hired Yost knew the way Roarke worked. Inside. Unless they knew how having an innocent young girl killed on his property, under his employ would work on him.

The price Roarke would pay was personal. And if the motive had been personal as well… Yes, that worried her.

Her motivation for bringing Yost to justice was twofold now. Justice for Darlene French. Answers for Roarke.

At her desk she studied Yost's file again. No family. No known associates. No known address. No nothing, she thought in disgust. For the first time in her career she knew the identity of the killer, had a solid case of physical evidence, every i dotted toward conviction, all within twenty-four hours of the crime.

And had not a single string with which to tug him closer to hand.

No leads. No avenues.

"Where do you sleep, you son of a bitch? Where do you eat? What do you do with yourself when you're off the clock?"

She pushed away, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

Low-key, she thought, letting the image of his face, his eyes, his mouth, form in her head. Nothing to grab attention. You're a loner. Nice quiet homes in nice neighborhoods. Gotta have more than one. You're a traveling man. Personal transpo? Probably, probably. But nothing flashy. Solid, dependable, discreet. Classic. Like the music you kill by.

But if you drove into New York, you didn't use the garage facilities at the hotel.

Meat and potatoes, she thought, remembering his hotel meal. Basic, expensive. The clothes he'd worn, in and out, had met the same criteria. As had his luggage.

Luggage.

She sat up, ordered the file disc that contained his check-in.

"Yeah, yeah, one business traveler's wheel-on. Basic and expensive. And new. Looks brand-spanking-new to me. Computer, enlarge sector twelve through twenty-eight, magnify twenty percent."

Working…

The portion of the image that showed the suitcase standing tidily at Yost's feet popped. She could see no sign of wear on the heavy-duty black leather, none of the flaws that showed after even minimal trips through the rigors of handling or security checks.

"Enlarge sector six through ten, this image."

Working…

And when the image popped this time, she read clearly the fancy brass tag of the manufacturer. "Cachet. Okay, what does that give us? Computer, identify model of baggage on screen, manufactured through Cachet."

Working… unit identified as model number 345/92-C, marketed as business elite and available in leather or cloth. Unit measures fourteen by eight by six and passes FAA and PAA carry-on requirements for all air and space transportation. 345/92-C is a new model, available since January of the current year, Cachet is the tradename of a division of Soloar Lights, Roarke Industries Corporation.

"Who didn't know that," Eve muttered. "Out since January. There's a nice little break. Computer… No, never mind." She shifted to her inter-department 'link and snagged McNab.

"Cachet, luggage. Their model 345/92-C, called Business Elite. Get me a list of where that model was sold, in black leather, since its intro in January of this year. I want locations, and from those locations, I want names. Who bought the bag?"

"That's going to take – "

"Time," she finished. "Did you run out of that substance?"

"No, sir. I'm on it."

"So am I," she murmured, then rose. She grabbed her jacket, her files, then strode out to Peabody's cubicle in the bull pen. "I'm heading home to run some data. I want you to check on the hair."

"Hair, sir?"

"Yost's hair. No way that was his. Just doesn't fit his face, and it's too damn fussy for his style. So it's a rug, a good one. And my hunch is he has a collection. Start off with the one he's wearing on the security tapes, check salons and beauty suppliers, top-level ones, major cities. He doesn't fool around with second line. And start with stuff that's natural fiber and non-allergic or whatever it's called. He likes things clean. He carries a leather suitcase rather than the lighter, man-made cloth."

Peabody opened her mouth, but Eve was already striding away so she didn't get to ask what a leather suitcase had to do with a wig.

Eve walked in the front door of the house just as Roarke came down the stairs. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and frowned at him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I live here."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, and I might ask the same. You're not off-shift as yet."

"I've got stuff I want to run here instead of at Central."

"Ah."

"Yeah, ah. And since you're here, I should be able to cut some time. I've got some questions you could – "

She started up as she spoke, breaking off when he laid a hand on her arm. "I was just upstairs, settling Mick into one of the guest rooms."

"Mick? Oh." She paused. "Oh."

"Do you have a problem with him staying here for a few days?"

"No." The timing sucks, she thought. Seriously sucks. "Like you said, you live here."

"As do you. I realize he comes from a time in my life that isn't entirely comfortable for you." He ran a finger over the strap of her shoulder harness. "Lieutenant. But it is, in fact, a time in my life."

"I met a few of your friends from Dublin before. I like Brian."

"I know." He laid his hands on her shoulders now, ran them down her back, moving closer until his brow rested on hers. "Mick was important to me, Eve. As close, likely closer than a brother might have been through some very ugly times, and some good ones. I thought he was dead, and I'd adjusted to that."

"And now you know he isn't." She understood friendship, its pulls and tugs and its puzzles. "Would you mind asking him not to do anything I'd have to arrest him for while he's staying in one of the guest rooms?"

He shifted just enough to press his lips to hers. "I think you'll like him."

"Yeah." And they both knew he hadn't agreed to her request. "You Irish guys are pretty likable. Listen, I just want to say you don't need any trouble right now, with the way this homicide investigation is heading."

He nodded. "It was never her, was it? That poor little maid."

"I don't think so. We need to sit down and figure who would go after you this way, and why."

"All right, when I can. I've some arrangements to put into motion just now. We're having some people over for dinner."

"Tonight? Roarke – "

"I can make your excuses if it's not convenient for you. Magda and her son, and a few key people will be here. It's important to smooth out feathers ruffled by the incident last night, and to reassure everyone involved in the upcoming auction that security and publicity are under control."

"No point in asking you to postpone the whole deal."

"None at all," he said cheerfully. "I can hardly put the hotel, or any of my projects or my life for that matter, on hold because it's believed that someone's hoping to upset me."

"The next move might be on you."

His smile never dimmed. In fact, it sharpened. "I'd prefer it. I don't want another innocent life on my conscience. In any case, I have the most reliable of bodyguards very close at hand."

And she intended to be closer. "What time's the dinner thing?"

"Eight."

"Then I'd better get some work done. I guess I have to put on some fancy deal."

"Leave that to me." He took her hand, kissed it. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, save it. I want some of your time before tomorrow," she added, jogging up the stairs.

"Darling Eve, I want a great deal of yours."

She snorted, kept going, and when she reached the second floor paused as Mick came out of one of the countless guest rooms. He'd removed his suit jacket and looked, to her eye, casual and at home.