"We'll be over tonight." She ran a finger over the screen as if stroking the baby's head. "Tell Deborah we love her. And we're so proud of her."

"Hey, how about me?"

"And you." She kissed her fingertips, laid them on the screen. "I'll see you all soon."

"I'll call Dad. You have a good cry."

"I will." She dug out a handkerchief even as she ended transmission. "Sorry. A new grandchild."

"Congratulations, he looked…" Like a red, wrinkled fish with limbs, Eve thought, but figured that wasn't the thing people wanted to hear at such moments. "… healthy."

"Yes." Mira sighed, dabbed at her eyes. "There's nothing like a new life coming into the world to remind us why we're here. The hope and the possibilities."

Eight pounds, was all Eve could think. It must be like passing an arena ball with limbs. She got to her feet. "You'll want to get out of here. I'll just – "

Her communicator signaled. "Dallas."

"Sir." Peabody's face, sober and stern, filled the little screen. "We have another homicide, same MO. Private residence in this case. Upper East Side."

"Meet me in the garage. I'm on my way."

"Yes, sir. I ran the address through. The residence is owned by Elite Real Estate, a Roarke Industries division."

It was a lovely brownstone in a neighborhood known for its high rents, swank restaurants, and fancy, specialized markets. Sumptuous white flowers shimmered on long pink stems in a trio of slim stone pots on the front steps.

A few blocks south, and those pots would have been lucky to stay put and intact overnight.

But here, people lived comfortably, privately, and didn't stoop to vandalizing their neighbors' homes. Security was ensured by the addition, at residents' expense, of private droids who patrolled on foot in snappy navy blue uniforms. This precaution tended to keep the riff and raff from outside the area from sneaking in and soiling the sidewalks.

Jonah Talbot had enjoyed that comfortable security in his two-story home where he had lived alone. And there he had died, but it hadn't been comfortable.

Eve stood over him. He'd been a well-built male in his early thirties. He'd been beaten, as had Darlene French, primarily around the face. There was additional bruising around the kidney area and the ribs. He wore only a gray T-shirt. The matching athletic shorts were tossed into a corner. He'd been sodomized.

His killer had left him facedown, with the silver wire crossed at the back of his neck, curled up into loops at the edges.

"Looks like he was working at home. Did you run his data yet?"

"Yes, sir, it's coming through now."

Eve took the gauge out of her field kit to establish time of death.

"Jonah Talbot," Peabody read off. "Male, single, age thirty-three. Vice president and deputy publisher, Starline Incorporated. Residing this address since November 2057. Parents divorced, one sibling, one half-sibling through mother, no children."

"Hold the rest of the personal. What's Starline?"

Peabody keyed in the request for data. "They publish discs, books too, e-mags, holo-journals, the whole shot of written and electronic material." Peabody read on, then cleared her throat and lowered her PPC. "They were established in 2015, then purchased in 2051 by Roarke Industries."

"Closer," Eve murmured and felt the chill dance up her spine. "Taking a step closer. He took him in here. This guy's no hundred-pound girl, but he still didn't put up much of a fight."

Gently, she lifted one of Talbot's hands, saw the raw and broken skin of his knuckles. "Got a few hits in. Why not more? He's not as big as Yost, but he's in good shape. We've got one table turned over. Two guys like this square off, they'd tear up the room."

She had reason to know, as not long before she'd had the experience of watching two furious and well-toned men try to pound each other into meat in her home office.

"We've got enough on record from this angle. Let's turn him."

She sat back on her heels as Peabody bent down to help with the job. As they turned him, Eve felt the jags and swelling of broken ribs.

"He waited awhile to kill him," she said when she lifted the shirt and examined the vicious discolorations over the torso. "And he fights dirty, the son of a bitch. Goggles."

Peabody handed over the microgoggles. Through their powerful lenses, Eve studied the body. "Just here, just under the left armpit. Pressure syringe. He pulled a tranq when he got too much resistance. When Talbot went down, he wailed on him awhile. Did he wait until he was coming out of it to rape him? I bet he did. What's the point in rape if the victim doesn't know the violation, the humiliation?"

Her father had done that, she remembered. If he'd hit her just a little too hard and knocked her out, he'd waited. He'd always waited until she knew, until she could feel, until she broke enough to beg.

"Yeah, wake up," she whispered. "Wake up. How's a guy supposed to get off if you just lie there, little bitch?"

"Sir?"

"He waited," she said, shaking it off. "Kept him alive long enough for the blood to gather into bruises, long enough for him to struggle with whatever energy he had left. Then he slips the wire over the head, finishes the job."

She pushed the goggles back. "I'll take over the record. Check with Feeney and McNab. See what they've got off the security cameras."

"Yes, sir."

"You got some hits in," she murmured, carefully sealing the injured hand.

So had Darlene French, she remembered. And the others? Was that cut or bruise Yost took away from the job another kind of souvenir? A war wound? Something to admire later?

What little trinket did he take from Jonah Talbot?

With the microgoggles back in place, she examined the body for any sign of piercing. She found what she was looking for on the left scrotum.

She shuddered, remembering the quick shocking sting of her recent ear piercing. "Jesus, what's up with people? For the record, piercing mark in left scrotum indicates victim wore or had worn some body ornamentation in this area."

She took off the goggles, rose, and standing over the dead began to slowly scan the room.

When she heard the footsteps, she spoke with her back to the door. "Peabody, tell the sweepers to keep an eye out for a small body ornament. The kind guys hook on their balls, for reasons I don't care to explore. Our guy likes souvenirs, and the victim's missing his genital bauble."

"I can't help you with that, Lieutenant."

She turned, looked at Roarke. Instinctively she moved forward, stepping between him and the body. "I don't want you in here."

"You can't always have what you want."

They both stepped forward, and she lifted a hand, pressed it firmly to his chest. "This is my crime scene."

"I'm fully aware of what it is. Move aside, I won't go any farther."

The tone of his voice answered the question she'd yet to ask. With a little jerk around her heart she stepped to the side. "You knew him."

"Yes." Anger stirred with pity as he studied the body. "You have his data by now, but I'll tell you he was a smart, ambitious man who moved up the publishing ranks quickly. He liked books. Real books. The kind you hold in your hand so you can turn the pages."

She said nothing, but knew Roarke also liked real books. That would have been a link between him and the dead. That enjoyment of turning the page.

"He would have been editing today," Roarke told her, and now guilt, sneaky and slick, slid in with the anger and pity. "He took one day a week at home for editing, though he could easily have passed that job on to his admin or any number of editors. As I recall, he liked to sail, and kept a small boat in a marina on Long Island. He talked of buying a weekend place there. He was seeing someone recently."