"That's right, penthouse floor. He'd left part of the victim in the living area. The rest of him was in the bedroom."

She pushed her plate aside and rose, raking a hand through her hair as she paced. "It was as bad as I've ever seen, Roarke, vicious. Because it was calculated to be ugly, not because it was uncontrolled. Most of the work was precise, like surgery. Prelim from the ME indicates the victim was kept alive and aware during most of the mutilation. He'd been pumped up with illegals – enough to keep him conscious without taking the edge off the pain. And believe me, the pain must have been unspeakable. He'd been disemboweled."

"Christ Jesus." Roarke blew out a breath. "An ancient punishment for political or religious crimes. A slow and hideous death."

"And a goddamn messy one," she put in. "His feet had been severed – one hand gone at the wrist. He was still alive when his right eye was cut out. That was the only piece of him we didn't recover at the scene."

"Lovely." Though he considered his stomach a strong one, Roarke lost his taste for breakfast. Rising, he went to the closet. "An eye for an eye."

"That's a revenge thing, right? From some play."

"The Bible, darling. The lord of all plays." He chose casual pleated trousers from the revolving rack.

"Back to God again. Okay, the game's revenge. Maybe it's religious, maybe it's just personal. We may zero in on motive when we finish running the victim. I've got a media blackout at least until I contact his family."

Roarke hitched up the trousers, reached for a simple white linen shirt. "Children?"

"Yeah, three."

"You have a miserable job, Lieutenant."

"That's why I love it." But she rubbed her hands over her face. "His wife and kids are in Ireland, we think. I need to track them down today."

"In Ireland?"

"Hmm. Yeah, seems the victim was one of your former countrymen. I don't suppose you knew a Thomas X. Brennen, did you?" Her half smile faded when she saw Roarke's eyes go dark and flat. "You did know him. I never figured it."

"Early forties?" Roarke asked without inflection. "About five-ten, sandy hair?"

"Sounds like. He was into communications and entertainment."

"Tommy Brennen." With the shirt still in his hand, Roarke sat on the arm of a chair. "Son of a bitch."

"I'm sorry. It didn't occur to me that he was a friend."

"He wasn't." Roarke shook his head to clear away the memories. "At least not in more than a decade. I knew him in Dublin. He was running computer scams while I was grifting. We crossed paths a few times, did a little business, drank a few pints. About twelve years ago, Tommy hooked up with a young woman of good family. Lace curtain Irish. He fell hard and decided to go straight. All the way straight," Roarke added with a crooked grin. "And he severed ties with the less… desirable elements of his youth. I knew he had a base here in New York, but we stayed out of each other's way. I believe his wife knows nothing of his past endeavors."

Eve sat on the arm opposite him. "It might have been one of the past endeavors, and one of those less desirable elements, that's responsible for what happened to him. Roarke, I'm going to be digging, and when I dig how much of you am I going to uncover?''

It was a worry, he supposed. A mild one to him. But, he knew, it would never be mild to her. "I cover my tracks, Lieutenant. And, as I said, we weren't mates. I haven't had any contact with him at all in years. But I remember him. He had a fine tenor voice," Roarke murmured. "A good laugh, a good mind, and a longing for family. He was fast with his fists, but never went looking for trouble that I recall."

"Looking or not, he found it. Do you know where his family is?"

He shook his head as he rose. "But I can get that information for you quickly enough."

"I'd appreciate it." She rose as he shrugged into the casual elegant shirt. "Roarke, I'm sorry, for whatever he was to you."

"A touchstone perhaps. A song in a smoky pub on a rainy night. I'm sorry, too. I'll be in my office. Give me ten minutes."

"Sure."

Eve took her time dressing. She had a feeling Roarke would need more than ten minutes. Not to access the data she'd asked for. With his equipment and his skill he'd have it in half that time. But she thought he needed a few moments alone to deal with the loss of that song in a smoky pub.

She'd never lost anyone even remotely close to her. Maybe, Eve realized, because she'd been careful to let only a select few become close enough to matter. Then there had been Roarke, and she'd had no choice. He'd invaded, she'd supposed, subtly, elegantly, inarguably. And now… she ran a thumb over the carved gold wedding ring she wore. Now he was vital.

She took the stairs this time, winding her way through the wide halls in the big, beautiful house. She didn't have to knock on his office door, but did so, waiting until the door slid open in invitation.

The window shields were up to let in the sun. The sky behind the treated glass was murky, hinting that the rain wasn't quite finished. Roarke manned the antique desk of gleaming wood rather than the slick console. The floors were covered with gorgeous old rugs he'd acquired on his journeys.

Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. She was almost accustomed to the grandeur she now lived in, but she didn't know what to do with Roarke's grief, with the self contained quiet sorrow.

"Listen, Roarke – "

"I got you a hard copy." He nudged a sheet of paper across the desk. "I thought it would be easier. His wife and children are in Dublin at the moment. The children are minors, two boys and a girl. Ages nine, eight, and six."

Too restless to sit, he rose and turned to stare out at his view of New York – quiet now, the light still dull, the skies almost still. He'd brought up visuals of Brennen's family – the pretty, bright-eyed woman, the rosy-cheeked children. It had disturbed him more than he'd anticipated.

"Financially they'll be quite comfortable," he said almost to himself. "Tommy saw to that. Apparently he'd become a very good husband and father."

She crossed the room, lifted a hand to touch, then dropped it. Damn it, she was no good at this, she thought. No good at knowing if comfort would be welcomed or rejected. "I don't know what to do for you," she said at length.

When he turned, his eyes were brilliantly blue, and fury rode in them along with the grief. "Find who did this to him. I can trust you for that."

"Yeah, you can."

A smile touched his lips, curved them. "Lieutenant Dallas, standing for the dead, as always." He skimmed a hand through her hair, lifting a brow when she caught it.

"You'll leave this to me, Roarke."

"Have I said otherwise?"

"It's what you haven't said that's just beginning to get through." She knew him, knew him well enough to understand he would have his own ways, his own means, and very likely his own agenda. "If you've got any ideas about going out on your own, put them to bed now. It's my case, and I'll handle it."

He ran his hands up her arms in a way that made her eyes narrow. "Naturally. But you will keep me apprised? And you know that I'm available for any assistance you might require."

"I think I can stumble through on my own. And I think it would be best if you took a step back from this one. A long step back."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "No," he said pleasantly.

"Roarke – "

"Would you prefer I lied to you, Eve?" He picked up the hard copy while she fumed, handed it to her. "Go to work. I'll make a few calls. I'd think by the end of the day I should have a complete list of Tommy's associates, professional and personal, his enemies, his friends, his lovers, his financial status, and so forth." He was leading her across the room as he spoke. "It'll be easier for me to accumulate the data, and it'll give you a clear picture."