“Arguably,” Whitney said, “the wife would know her husband’s sexual proclivities while others don’t.”

“Yeah, and that’s something she counted on. She’s wrong, Commander. I don’t have it solid yet, but I know she’s wrong. The staging’s wrong. It’s too elaborate, too…fussy,” she said for a lack of better. “Whoever did it knew the house, the security, knew Anders’s habits. There were little mistakes, but for the most part, it was well planned. Whoever did it wanted to humiliate him, to open him to the very media frenzy that’s happening. Mrs. Anders is an expert in PR. Just like she knows that if she plays this right, after the jokes about her die down, she’ll come out golden. Who gets the sympathy, the support, the understanding? She’ll be the victim, and she’ll be the one squaring her shoulders and going on.”

“Are you saying she did this for the publicity?” Whitney demanded.

“No, sir, but it’s a side benefit she’d be aware of, and will find a way to exploit.

“It wasn’t a stranger, Commander, it wasn’t a pro, and it wasn’t an accident. That leaves me with Ava Anders.”

“Then prove it,” Whitney told her.

“Yes, sir. I have Roarke on as expert consultant, analyzing all the financials, looking for any hidden accounts.”

“If anyone could find them.”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “I intend to run a deeper background check on Mrs. Anders, and interview her first husband, as well as other friends and associates of hers and the victim’s.”

She rose. “Regarding the media, Chief Tibble, Detective Peabody will be appearing on Now this evening. I can’t speak for Nadine Furst, but I do have knowledge she knew the victim and liked him. Respected him.”

“Why Peabody,” Whitney demanded, “and not you?”

“Because, Commander, she needs a shove into the deep end of the pool. And Nadine is very fond of Peabody. That doesn’t mean she won’t push or dig, but she won’t eat her alive. And, in my opinion, sir, Detective Peabody can and will handle herself.”

“If she fucks up, Lieutenant?” Tibble smiled. “You’ll be the one dealing with my wife.”

“So noted. Actually, it might be helpful for me to speak with her, if you don’t object.”

“Go right ahead. But fair warning. She’s feeling very protective of Mrs. Anders at the moment.”

Varying approaches on interviewing the wife of the Chief of Police occupied her mind all the way back to Homicide. Diplomacy could be key, and that particular key tended to go slippery in her fingers. But she’d hold it steady. Next came the trick of interviewing a cop’s wife-the top cop’s wife-without letting her suspect you suspected the woman she was “feeling very protective of.”

Just have to pull it off, Eve thought. That’s why they paid her the medium bucks.

“Lady! Yo, lady!”

It took her a minute, but she made the voice, and the small package it came from. Coffee-black skin, vivid green eyes, a curly high-top of hair. The boy hauled the same battered suitcase-approximately the size of Staten Island-he’d hauled in December when he’d been hustling the fake cashmere scarves inside it near the splatted body of a jumper on Broadway.

“Didn’t I tell you before I’m not a lady.”

“You’re a cop. I tracked you down, and I’ve been waiting here, and these other cops tried hassling me about why wasn’t I in school and that shit.”

“Why aren’t you in school and that shit?”

“’Cause I got business.” He shot a finger at her. “With you.”

“I’m not buying anything.”

“I gotta tip.”

“Yeah? I’ve got one, too. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“Why not? You can’t chew it, you just spit it out anyway.”

That wasn’t stupid, Eve noted. “Okay, what’s your tip?”

“I’ll tell you, but I’m pretty thirsty.” He gave her the same grin he’d flashed the previous December.

“Do I look like a mark, shortie?”

“You look like the top bitch cop in New York City. That’s word on the street.”

“Yeah.” Maybe she could spare a minute, and the price of a Pepsi. “That is the correct word. Give me the tip, and if I like it, I’ll pop for a drink.”

“I know where there’s suspicious activity, and suspicious characters. I’m gonna take you.”

“Kid, you’re hard pressed to find anywhere in the city where there aren’t suspicious activities and suspicious characters.”

He shook his head in disgust. “You a cop or what?”

“We established that. And I’ve got cop work to do.”

“Same guy, same place, same times. Every day for five weeks. I seen it. Maybe they see me, too, but they don’t mind me ’cause I be a kid.”

No, Eve thought, not stupid. Most people didn’t see kids. “What does this same guy do at the same place at the same times every day for five weeks that makes him a suspicious character involved in suspicious activity?”

“He goes in with a big old shopping bag heavy the way he carries it. And a couple minutes later, bop! he comes out again, and he’s got a different bag. It ain’t heavy either.” The kid adjusted the airboard slung at his back.

“Where is this den of iniquity?”

The kid’s brow furrowed like an elderly grandfather’s. “Ain’t no den. It’s a store. I’m gonna take you. It’s a good tip. I oughta get an orange fizzy.”

“You oughta get a kick in the ass.” But she pulled out credits, passed them over, jerked a thumb at Vending. While he plugged in credits, she considered. The kid was sharp enough, and had probably seen just what he said. Meaning the store was a front-or a beard-for passing off wallets, bags, and whatever else the street thief could lift from tourists and New Yorkers foolish enough to get their pockets picked.

The kid sucked on the fizzy. “We gotta get, so you can catch them.”

“Give me the location, and I’ll send cops over.”

“Uh-uh. I gotta show you. That’s the deal.”

“What deal? I didn’t make any damn deal. I don’t have time to go driving around, waiting for some pocket man to make his bag drop.”

The boy’s eyes were like glass, and just as sharp. “I guess you don’t be much of a cop.”

She could’ve stared him down, she was pretty sure of it. But he made her shoulder blades itch. “You’re a pain in the ass.” She checked the time, calculated. Odds were the drop spot was in Times Square where she’d had the misfortune of meeting the kid in the first place. She could swing by there on the way home. Maybe she’d get some damn work done at home without being interrupted every five minutes.

“Wait here,” she ordered. “If you’re not right here when I get back, I’ll hunt you down like a dog and stuff you inside that suitcase. Dig?”

“I gonna show you?”

“Yeah, you’re going to show me. Stay.” She strode into the bullpen. “Peabody, I have to make a run, semipersonal, then I’m going to work at home.”

“But-but-I have to leave for 75 in…in like any minute!”

“Do that, copy any new data, shoot it to my home office.”

“But…” On a run, Peabody rushed after Eve. “You’re not going with me?”

“Pull yourself together, Peabody.” Eve grabbed file discs, tossed them into her bag. “You’ve done on-air before.”

“Not like this. Dallas, you’ve gotta go with me. I can’t go there by myself. I’ll-”

“Jesus, how can people be worth all this? Take McNab. Tell his DS I cleared it.” Eve dragged on her coat. “And don’t fuck up.”

“You’re supposed to say break a leg!” Peabody called out as Eve stomped away.

“Fuck it up and I’ll break your damn leg myself.”

“Dallas.”

“What?” She rounded on Baxter with a snarl, then remembered. “Sorry. Any new leads?”

“No. Have you-”

“No, I haven’t had a chance to look at the file. Soon as I can, Baxter.” A headache brought on, she knew, by sheer irritation, began to pulse behind her eyes. “Let’s go, kid, and if you’re stringing me you’ll find out firsthand why the word is I’m top bitch cop.”

In the garage the kid shook his head sorrowfully at her vehicle. He climbed in, steadied the suitcase on his lap, took a long study of the dash, then turned those Venusian green eyes on her. “This ride is crap.”