"Pain in the butt," Eve complained. "How many numbers are we supposed to remember? Two, five, zero, nine." She blew out a breath as her unit coughed to life. "They'd better come up with the new system they promised the department." She slipped a disc into the unit. "Save to Bonning, John Henry, case number 4572077-H. Copy report to Whitney, Commander."

"Nice, quick work on Bonning, Dallas."

"The man's got a brain the size of a pistachio. Tossed his partner out the window because they got into a fight over who owed who a stinking twenty credits. And he's trying to tell me he was defending himself, in fear for his life. The guy he tossed was a hundred pounds lighter and six inches shorter. Asshole," she said with a resigned sigh. "You'd have thought Boner would have cooked up the guy had a knife or swung a bat at him."

She sat back, circled her neck, surprised and pleased that there was barely any tension to be willed away. "They should all be this easy."

She listened with half an ear to the hum and rumble of the early air traffic outside her window. One of the commuter trams was blasting out its spiel on economical rates and convenience.

"Weekly, monthly, yearly terms available! Sign on to EZ TRAM, your friendly and reliable air transport service. Begin and end your work day in style."

If you like the packed-in-like-sweaty-sardines style, Eve thought. With the chilly November rain that had been falling all day, she imagined both air and street snarls would be hideous. The perfect end to the day.

"That wraps it," she said and grabbed her battered leather jacket. "I'm clocking out – on time for a change. Any hot plans for the weekend, Peabody?"

"My usual, flicking off men like flies, breaking hearts, crushing souls."

Eve shot a quick grin at her aide's sober face. The sturdy Peabody, she thought – a cop from the crown of her dark bowl-cut hair to her shiny regulation shoes. "You're such a wild woman, Peabody. I don't know how you keep up the pace."

"Yeah, that's me, queen of the party girls." With a dry smile, Peabody reached for the door just as Eve's tele-link beeped. Both of them scowled at the unit. "Thirty seconds and we'd have been on the skywalk down."

"Probably just Roarke calling to remind me we've got this dinner party deal tonight." Eve flicked the unit on. "Homicide, Dallas."

The screen swam with colors, dark, ugly, clashing colors. Music, low octave, slow paced, crept out of the speaker. Automatically, Eve tapped the command for trace, watched the Unable to Comply message scroll across the bottom of the screen.

Peabody whipped out her porta-link, stepping aside to contact Central Control as the caller spoke.

"You're supposed to be the best the city has to offer, Lieutenant Dallas. Just how good are you?"

"Unidentified contact and/or jammed transmissions to police officers are illegal. I'm obliged to caution you that this transmission is being traced through CompuGuard, and it's being recorded."

"I'm aware of that. Since I've just committed what worldly society would consider first-degree murder, I'm not overly concerned about minor nuisances like electronic violations. I've been blessed by the Lord."

"Oh yeah?" Terrific, she thought, just what she needed.

"I have been called on to do His work, and have washed myself in the blood of His enemy."

"Does He have a lot of them? I mean, you'd think He'd just, what, smite them down Himself instead of enlisting you to do the dirty work."

There was a pause, a long one, in which only the dirge played through. "I have to expect you to be flippant." The voice was harder now, and edgier. Temper barely suppressed. "As one of the godless, how could you understand divine retribution? I'll put this on your level. A riddle. Do you enjoy riddles, Lieutenant Dallas?''

"No." She slid her gaze toward Peabody, got a quick, frustrated head shake. "But I bet you do."

"They relax the mind and soothe the spirit. The name of this little riddle is Revenge. You'll find the first son of the old sod in the lap of luxury, atop his silver tower where the river runs dark below and water falls from a great height. He begged for his life, and then for his death. Never repenting his great sin, he is already damned."

"Why did you kill him?"

"Because this is the task I was born for,"

"God told you that you were born to kill?" Eve pushed for trace again, fought with frustration. "How'd He let you know? Did He call you up on your 'link, send a fax? Maybe He met you in a bar?"

"You won't doubt me." The sound of breathing grew louder, strained, shaky. "You think because you're a woman in a position of authority that I'm less? You won't doubt me for much longer. I contacted you, Lieutenant. Remember this is in my charge. Woman may guide and comfort man, but man was created to protect, defend, to avenge."

"God tell you that too? I guess that proves He's a man after all. Mostly ego."

"You'll tremble before Him, before me."

"Yeah, right." Hoping his video was clear, Eve examined her nails. "I'm already shaking."

"My work is holy. It is terrible and divine. From Proverbs, Lieutenant, twenty-eight seventeen: 'If a man is burdened with the blood of another, let him be a fugitive until death; let no one help him.' This one's days as a fugitive are done – and no one helped him."

"If you killed him, what does that make you?"

"The wrath of God. You have twenty-four hours to prove you're worthy. Don't disappoint me."

"I won't disappoint you, asshole," Eve muttered as the transmission ended. "Anything, Peabody?"

"Nothing. He jammed the tracers good and proper. They can't give us so much as on or off planet."

"He's on planet," she muttered and sat. "He wants to be close enough to watch."

"Could be a crank."

"I don't think so. A fanatic, but not a crank. Computer, run buildings, residential and commercial with the word luxury, in New York City, with view of the East River or the Hudson." She tapped her fingers. "I hate puzzle games."

"I kind of like them." Brows knit, Peabody leaned over Eve's shoulder as the computer went to work.

Luxury Arms

Sterling Luxury

Luxury Place

Luxury Towers

Eve pounced. "Access visual of Luxury Towers, on screen."

Working…

The image popped, a towering spear of silver with a glint of sunlight off the steel and shimmering on the Hudson at its base. On the far west wide, a stylish waterfall tumbled down a complex arrangement of tubes and channels.

"Gotcha."

"Can't be that easy," Peabody objected.

"He wanted it easy." Because, Eve thought, someone was already dead. "He wants to play and he wants to preen. Can't do either until we're in it. Computer, access name of residents on the top floor of the Luxury Towers."

Working… Penthouse is owned by The Brennen Group and is New York base for Thomas X. Brennen of Dublin, Ireland, age forty-two, married, three children, president and CEO of The Brennen Group, an entertainment and communications agency.

"Let's check it out, Peabody. We'll notify Dispatch on the way."

"Request backup?"

"We'll get the lay of the land first." Eve adjusted the strap on her weapon harness and shrugged into her jacket.

The traffic was just as bad as she'd suspected, bumping and grinding over wet streets, buzzing overhead like disoriented bees. Glide-carts huddled under wide umbrellas and did no business she could see. Steam rolled up out of their grills, obscuring vision and stinking up the air.

"Get the operator to access Brennen's home number, Peabody. If it's a hoax and he's alive, it'd be nice to keep it that way."

"On it," Peabody said and pulled out her 'link.

Annoyed with the traffic delays, Eve sounded her siren. She'd have had the same response if she'd leaned out the window and shouted. Cars remained packed together like lovers, giving not an inch.