"If you're going to make accusations, Jacoby, put something behind them." It took all Eve's control to keep her voice level. "Would you like to produce the individual Roarke's criminal record at this time?"

"You know damn well he doesn't have one." He got to his feet now. "You want to sleep with a man who's run every dirty game in the book and still wear a badge, that's on you. But – "

"Jacoby." Stowe rose as well, neatly positioning herself between her partner and Eve. "For God's sake. Let's keep personalities out of this."

"An excellent suggestion." Whitney pushed back from his desk, stood. "Agent Jacoby, I will ignore that inappropriate attack on my officer. Once. If it's repeated, in any way, in any shape, in any form, I will report your conduct to your superiors. Your request for cooperation and for inclusion in any data generated on the Darlene French matter by my lieutenant and her investigation team will be considered, after said request is submitted formally, in writing, from your command. This meeting is over."

"The Bureau has the weight to take over this case."

"That's debatable," Whitney returned. "But you're free to submit the appropriate paperwork to that end. Until that time, let me suggest that you refrain from coming onto my turf and insulting this office and my officers."

"I apologize, Commander Whitney." Stowe shot Jacoby a look that warned him to keep silent. "And we appreciate your time, and your consideration." She gave her partner a not-so-subtle nudge to get him moving out of the room.

"Take a minute," Whitney advised when the door closed behind them, "before you say something you may regret."

"I assure you, Commander, I couldn't regret anything I might say at the moment." But she took a breath. "I appreciate your support."

"Jacoby was out of line. He was heading over the line when he strutted in here thinking he could rattle his federal balls at me. He asks for cooperation properly, he'll get it. He will not take over your case. It may come down to you working in tandem with Jacoby and Stowe. Is that a problem?"

"It won't be my problem. Sir."

A smile flickered around his mouth before he nodded, sat again. "Fill me in."

She did so, as thoroughly and concisely as her written report. And as she did so, she watched Whitney's lips purse, his eyebrows raise. Those were the only reactions.

"In all these years the Feebs haven't put Yost in New York?"

"They may have, sir, but not as indicated by any data I've been able to access. They have followed the wire, but not, as far as it shows, the specific length to specific outlets. I fail to understand how something that basic could have been neglected. The luggage, the hairpiece, those apply directly to French. But it's likely he's repeated that pattern, or a slight variation at other times. The FBI profile on the suspect is intricate and thorough, which is why I have yet to request one from Doctor Mira. I intend to do so, as corroboration, and with the additional data I've accumulated."

"Cover that, and make certain you have documentation and paperwork on every step. Jacoby may be the type to try to hang you up on technicalities. Media-wise, I want you low profile. The tone of the case shades toward Roarke, which shades toward you. I don't want you to give any statements until you're cleared to do so."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't look so smug about it. You'll be tossed to the media hounds before it's finished. No leads, I take it, on who might be pulling the strings here, or why?"

"No, sir."

"Then keep your focus on Yost. Smoke him out. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir." She turned to the door, one step behind Peabody.

"Dallas?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"I believe you can tell Roarke to expect a little federal pressure."

"Understood." She strode to the elevator, resisted kicking the wall. "She's nothing but a tool to him. Darlene French to Jacoby," she muttered. "No more human to him than she was to Yost. The son of a bitch."

"She's got you, Dallas."

"That's right. And she's going to keep me." Eve started to step into the elevator, then spotted Stowe inside. "Stay out of my face."

Stowe raised a hand in a gesture of truce. "Jacoby's gone back to the field office. I just want a minute. I'll ride down with you."

"Your partner's an asshole."

"Only about half the time." Stowe tried a smile. She was a trim woman in her middle thirties who did her best to spruce up the federal dress code with a pretty swing of honey brown hair. Her eyes were shades darker, and direct. "Listen, I want to apologize for Jacoby's remarks, and his attitude." She let out a sigh. "And my apology doesn't mean squat, however sincere."

"Maybe it means squat, even if it doesn't mean diddly."

"Fair enough. Look, when you cut out the red tape, we're all cops and all after the same thing."

"Are we?"

"Yost. You want him, we want him. Does it matter to you who turns the key in his cage?"

"I don't know. You guys have had a lot of years to turn that key. About as many years as Darlene French got to live."

"True enough. Personally, however, I've had three months, and of the three probably one in pure man hours to assimilate data on Sylvester Yost. If it gets us closer to stopping him, I'll hand you the key."

When the doors opened on the garage level, Stowe glanced out. She'd have to ride back up to the main lobby level. "I'm just asking you not to let Jacoby's temperament get in the way of the goal. I think we can help each other."

Eve stepped out, but turned and laid her hand on the door to keep it open. "Keep your partner on a leash, and I'll consider it."

She let the doors close and walked to her parking slot. Her pea-green unit sat, dented, scarred, and with a bright yellow smiley face some joker in Maintenance had painted beaming out from the rear window.

It was probably a very good thing Eve didn't have that riot laser.

Eve hit the salon first and was pleasantly surprised when her vehicle made the trip without embarrassing her.

She'd walked through the doors of Paradise before, tracking another murderer, another sexual homicide. Another case that had involved Roarke. The first one, she thought, that had connected us.

It had been more than a year, but the opulent decor of the salon hadn't changed. Soft, soothing music played, harmonizing with the splashing waterfalls and drifting through the air delicately scented by the long sweeps and tall spires of fresh flowers.

Patrons sat or lounged amid the splendor of the waiting area, sipping tiny cups of genuine coffee or spring-hued glasses of fruit juice or fizzy water. The receptionist was the same bountifully breasted woman in snug, short red who had greeted Eve before.

The hair was different, Eve noted. This time around it was Easter egg pink and styled in a streaming fountain of curls that burst out of a high cone on the crown of her head.

Recognition didn't register in her eyes, but dismay and annoyance did the moment she spotted Eve's worn jacket, scarred boots, and shaggily styled hair.

"I'm sorry, we serve by previous appointment only in Paradise. I'm afraid all our consultants are fully booked for the next eight months. May I suggest an alternate salon?"

Eve leaned on the high counter, crossed her boots at the ankles. "You don't remember me, Denise? Gee, I'm really hurt. Wait a minute! I bet you'll remember this." Smiling cheerfully, Eve pulled out her badge and pushed it under the receptionist's expensively sculpted nose.

"Oh. Oh. Not again." Even as the words tripped out of her mouth, Denise remembered just who the cop had married since last they'd met. "I mean, I do beg your pardon, miss, I – "

"That's Lieutenant Miss."