An hour later, Eve was pouring over the sweeper's report. There was little to nothing to study. "Bastard didn't leave so much as a nose hair to scoop up." She rubbed her eyes. She needed to go back to the scene, she decided, walk through it, try to visualize it all. All she could see was the blood, the gore, the waste.

She needed to clear her vision.

The Biblical quote had come from Proverbs again. She could only assume that the intended victim wanted to be rich. And that, she decided, narrowed it down to every single sinning soul in New York City.

Revenge was the motive. Money for betrayal? she wondered. Someone connected to Brennen? She called up the lists Roarke had accessed and transmitted, scanned the names of Thomas Brennen's associates, friends.

No lovers, she mused. And Roarke would have found any if they'd existed. Thomas Brennen had been a faithful husband, and now his wife was a widow.

At the sharp rap on her doorjamb, she glanced up, frowned distractedly at the man grinning at her. Mid-twenties, she judged, with a pretty-boy face and a love of fashion.

He barely topped five-eight even in the neon yellow air boots. He wore denim above them, pants that bagged and a jacket that showed frayed cuffs. His hair was a bright new minted gold that flowed into a waist-length ponytail. He had half a dozen small, glinting gold hoops in his left earlobe.

"You took a wrong turn, pal. This is Homicide."

"And you'd be Dallas." His bright, eager grin pinched twin dimples into his cheeks. His eyes were a misty green. "I'd be McNab, with EDD."

She didn't groan. She wanted to, but suppressed it into a quiet sigh as she held out a hand. Good Christ was all she could think, as he took it with fingers twinkling with rings. "You're one of Feeney's."

"Joined his unit six months ago." He glanced around her dim, cramped office. "You guys in Homicide really got squeezed in the budget cuts. We got closets bigger than this in EDD."

He glanced over, then beamed a fresh smile as Peabody stepped up beside him. "Nothing like a woman in uniform."

"Peabody, McNab."

Peabody took a long, critical study, scanning glints and glitters. "This is the EDD dress code?"

"It's Saturday," McNab said easily. "I got the call at home, thought I'd swing in and see what's up. And we're a little loose over at EDD."

"Obviously." Peabody started to squeeze by him, narrowing her eyes when he grinned again.

"With three of us in there, we'll be standing in sin. But I'm game." He shifted enough to let her by, then followed, letting his gaze skim down to judge curves.

Not bad, thought McNab. Not bad at all.

When he lifted his gaze and encountered Eve's stony stare, he cleared his throat. He knew Eve Dallas's reputation. She didn't tolerate bullshit. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?''

"I've got a homicide, Detective, and I may have another by this time tomorrow. I need a trace on communication. I need a location. I need to find out how the hell this prick is jamming our lines."

"Then I'm your man. Calls coming in on this unit?" At Eve's nod, he moved closer. "Mind if I take your chair, see what I can do?"

"Go ahead." She rose, moved aside for him. "Peabody, I've got to get over to the morgue this afternoon. Try to head off Mrs. Brennen, get a statement. We're going to split the restaurant list between us. We're looking for someone who works and lives on the premises, someone who emigrated into New York, and someone with a possible connection to Thomas Brennen. I've got a list of Brennen's nearest friends and associates. Narrow it down, and narrow it fast." She handed Peabody a hard copy.

"Yes, sir."

"And check close on anyone named Riley – or Dicey."

McNab stopped the under-the-breath humming that seemed to be the theme song of every electronics man Eve knew. "Dicey Riley?" he said and laughed.

"I miss the joke, McNab?"

"I don't know. 'Dicey Riley' is an Irish pub song."

"Pub?" Eve's eyes narrowed. "You Irish, McNab?"

She caught the slight flare of insult flicker over his pretty face. "I'm a Scotsman, Lieutenant. My grandfather was a Highlander."

"Good for him. What's the song mean – what's it about?"

"It's about a woman who drinks too much."

"Drinks? Not eats?"

"Drinks," he confirmed. "The Irish Virus."

"Shit. Well, half these are pubs anyway," Eve said as she looked down at her own list. "We'll run another check on Irish bars in the city."

"You'll need a twenty man task force to hit all the Irish pubs in New York," McNab said easily, then turned back to his work.

"You just worry about the trace," Eve ordered. "Peabody, run the names and locations for the bars. The uniform back yet with the discs from the Towers?"

"He's en route."

"Fine, have the bars broken down geographically. I'll take the south and west, you take north and east." Even as Peabody left, Eve turned to McNab. "I need something fast."

"It's not going to be fast." His boyish face was grim with purpose now. "I've already gone down a couple of layers. There's nothing. I'm running a scattershot trace on the last transmission that came through. It takes time, but it's the best way to trace through a jam."

"Make it take less time," she snapped. "And contact me as soon as you break through."

He rolled his eyes behind her back as she strode out. "Women," he muttered. "Always wanting a miracle."

Eve hit a dozen bars as she worked her way down to the medical examiner's building. She found two bar owners and three crew who lived above or behind the business. As she pulled her unit into a third-level parking space at the ME's, she called up Peabody.

"Status?"

"I've got two possibles so far, and my uniform's going to smell like smoke and whiskey for the next six months." Peabody grimaced. "Neither of my possibles claims to have known Thomas Brennen or to have an enemy in the world."

"Yeah, I'm getting the same line. Keep at it. We're running out of time."

Eve took the stairs down, then coded herself into security. She avoided the discreet, flower-laden waiting area and moved straight into the morgue.

The air there was cold, and carried the sly underlayer of death. The doors might have been steel and sealed, but death always found a way to make its presence known.

She'd left Brennen in Autopsy Room B, and since it was unlikely he'd taken himself off anywhere, she approached the security panel, holding up her badge for the scan.

Autopsy in progress, Brennen, Thomas X. Please observe the health and safety rules upon entering. You are cleared, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

The door clicked, then unsealed with a whoosh of chilly air. Eve stepped in to see the trim and dapper form of Dr. Morris, the ME, gracefully removing Brennen's brain from his open skull.

"Sorry we're not finished up here, Dallas. We've had a flood of check-ins without reservations this morning. People – ha, ha – dying to get in."

"What can you tell me?"

Morris checked the weight of the brain, set it aside in fluid. His waist-length braid made a curling line down the back of his snowy white lab coat. Under it he wore a skin suit of virulent purple. "He was a healthy fifty-two-year-old man, and had once suffered a broken tibia. It mended well. He enjoyed his last meal about four and a half hours before death. Lunch, I'd say. Beef soup, bread, and coffee. The coffee was drugged."

"With?"

"A midline soother. Over-the-counter tranq. He'd have felt pretty relaxed, maybe with a slight buzz." Morris manually logged data into his portable log and spoke to Eve across the white and mutilated remains. "The first injury would have been the severed hand. Even with the soother in his system, that would have caused shock and quick, traumatic blood loss."