"Okay, okay, what have we got." Eve ordered the data on-screen. There were numerous sources for and purchases of the silver wire that matched the murder weapon. But when you filtered it down to two-foot lengths and two-foot multiples, that number narrowed to eighteen globally and six nationwide. With one single purchase of four lengths of two, cash payment, from a wholesaler right in Manhattan.

"Right here, what do we bet you bought it right here. Twenty blocks from the murder scene."

As she read the data on the luggage, a grim smile tightened her lips. There were thousands of purchases of the black leather carry-on since January, but focusing on the last four weeks, she found less than a hundred. And of the dozen or so purchased in New York City, there were only two selected on the same day the wire had been bought. And only one paid for with cash.

"There are no coincidences," she murmured. "You got your supplies right here. Now why would a man buy a transpo carry-on if he'd already done the trip? There was no trip. You were already here."

Wigs, she thought, and switched to Peabody's search and scan. "Jesus, why don't people just grow their own hair?" Literally millions of wigs, hairpieces, extensions, fillers, and fluffers had walked out of salons and stores and suppliers over the last six months.

She more than tripled that amount if she included rentals.

Patient as a cat at a mouse hole now, she pulled up the image of Yost outside the door of the suite, highlighted head and shoulders, erased the face, ordered a computer image of three hundred and sixty degrees, then dumped the result into the data bank.

"Computer, list cash-only purchases of human hair wig matching current image."

Working… five-hundred-twenty-six purchases, cash, or imaged product in requested period. Listing…

While her computer spewed out the supplier locations and dates of purchase, Eve followed on-screen.

Paradise Salon, retail, Fifth Avenue, New York, May three.

"Hold. And we have a winner. Busy boy that day, weren't you, shopping all over town. Computer, list any other purchases on this receipt."

Working… in addition to human hair wig model distinguished gentleman, receipt includes purchase of human hair wig model captain stud; two twelve-ounce bottles of wig grooming product, brand name sampson; one six-ounce bottle of collagen elixir for face, brand name youth; one each of temporary eye tint, brand name wink, in viking blue, sea mist, and carmel cream; one dietary product, brand name fat-zap for men; and two three-by-six-inch scented candles, sandlewood. Purchases total eight thousand, four hundred and twnety-six dollars and fifty-eight cents, including all applicable taxes.

"A lot of cash," Eve mused, "but why leave a paper trail, even a false one, if you don't have to? Computer, add image of Captain Stud brand wig to file. Copy addresses of luggage store, salon, and jewelry supplier, my PPC."

While her computer completed the tasks, Eve turned to her 'link. Thirty-two calls, she noted, since she'd logged out the day before. Odds were the bulk of them were from reporters hoping for a statement or sound bite.

It was tempting just to dump them, but until Peabody reported her vehicle was a go, she could spare a little time.

She started through them, automatically transferring the usual media pleas to NYPSD Media Relations. Until she was told differently, directly from her commander, she wasn't talking to the press.

She paused on the transmission from Nadine Furst, the star of Channel 75, and a personal friend. "Not yet, pal," she murmured, but answered the message with a time delay. That way, she'd be in the field before Nadine received it.

"No point in nagging me," Eve said. "I don't have anything you can use at this point. The investigation is ongoing, all leads are being pursued with diligence, and blah, blah. You know the routine. When and if I have something for you, I'll be in touch. You tie up my 'link, I'm not going to feel very friendly."

Satisfied with that, Eve programmed the message to transmit in sixty minutes. She took twenty of them to write an updated report, then transmitted it to her commander.

She'd no more than pushed away from her desk and reached for her jacket when the summons from Commander Whitney came through.

As a matter of course, she snagged Peabody on the way up. "Maintenance?"

"Well, you know they have the whole how-backed-up-and-put-upon-they-are routine down pretty pat."

Eve stepped onto the people glide, scowled. "Did you mention riot weapons?"

"I thought it best to hold that possibility in reserve, sir." Just as she thought it best not to mention the snide comments made about a certain lieutenant's track record with city vehicles and equipment. "But I made the priority of your current investigation clear, and indicated that Commander Whitney frowned on having his ranked officers going out into the field in a piece of junk."

"That was good thinking."

"As long as nobody down there calls him for verification. You know, Dallas, you could request that the commander put the arm on them."

"I'm not whining to my superior, or pulling rank."

"You don't mind having me do it," Peabody muttered.

"That's right." Slightly more cheerful, Eve switched from glide to elevator. "You'll get your update on where we are in the case when I give the oral to Whitney. I think our man has a homey little hole right here in New York."

"Here?"

"Yeah." Geared up, Eve stepped off the elevator on Whitney's level.

Since she was waved directly through, Eve knocked briefly on Whitney's door, then stepped in.

He was seated behind his desk, and didn't rise. He was a big man with dark, wide face and beefy shoulders, hair rapidly going gray and eyes that remained street-sharp.

There were two other people in the room, male and female. Neither of them rose either, but both studied her closely. As she did them.

The dull and boxy black suits with ties ruthlessly knotted at the neck, the good shoes with their military shine, and the cold survey tipped her off.

Feds. Shit.

"Lieutenant, Officer." Whitney inclined his head and kept his big hands folded on his desk. "Special Agents James Jacoby and Karen Stowe. FBI. Lieutenant Dallas is primary on the Darlene French homicide investigation. Officer Peabody is her aide. The FBI has some interest in your case, Lieutenant."

Eve said nothing, and stayed on her feet.

"The Bureau, in cooperation with other law enforcement agencies, has been pursuing the individual Sylvester Yost for several years in connection with various crimes, including murder."

Eve met Jacoby's eyes. "I'm aware of that from my research."

"The Bureau expects the cooperation of the NYPSD in this pursuit. Agent Stowe and myself will run the case from the New York field office."

"Agent Stowe and yourself are certainly free to run your case wherever it suits you best. You will not run my case from anywhere."

Jacoby had brown eyes, dark and smug. "Yost's activities come under the federal net."

"Yost is not the exclusive property of the FBI, Agent Jacoby, nor of Global or Interpol, or the NYPSD. But the investigation into the murder of Darlene French is mine, and it's going to stay mine."

"You want to stay connected to this, Lieutenant, you'd better dump the attitude."

"If you want to stay in this office," Whitney cut in, "you'd be wise to dump yours, Agent Jacoby. The NYPSD is prepared to cooperate with the FBI as regards suspect Yost. It is not prepared to remove or replace Lieutenant Dallas as primary of the Darlene French homicide. Your jurisdiction has limits. You'd be smart to remember what they are."

Jacoby angled himself toward Whitney, his posture aggressive, his eyes going hot. "Your primary's connection to the individual Roarke, who may or may not be tied to this homicide and has long been under the federal eye as a suspect in various illegal activities, makes her a poor choice to head this investigation."