Now she rubbed her eyes. „I’m going to get some coffee, then hit the father again. Thanks for coming down.“

„It’s been fascinating. I’d like to do the testing on her personally. If you’ve no objection.“

„When I’m done, she’s all yours.“

Because her own AutoChef had the only real coffee in all of cop central, Eve detoured there first.

There he was, sitting at her desk, fiddling with his ppc.

„You should go home,“ Eve told Roarke. „I’m going to have an all-nighter on this.“

„I will, but I wanted to see you first.“ He rose, touched his hand to her cheek. „Put something on that, will you?“ Until she did, he put his lips there. „Do you have a confession?“

„She’s singing – ha-ha. Chapter and verse. Mira says she’s nuts, but that won’t keep her out of lockup.“

„Sad, really, that an obsession with one woman could cause so much grief, and for so long.“

„Some of it ends tonight.“

This time he laid his lips on hers. „Come back to me when you can.“

„You can count on that one.“

Alone, she sat. And alone she wrote up a report, and the paperwork that charged Radcliff C. Hopkins I with murder in the first degree in the unlawful death of Bobbie Bray. She filed it, then after a moment’s thought, put in another form.

She requested the release of Bobbie Bray’s remains to herself – if they weren’t claimed by next of kin – so that she could arrange for their burial. Quietly.

„Somebody should do it,“ she stated aloud.

She got her coffee, rolled her aching shoulders. Then headed back to work.

In Number Twelve, there was silence in the dark. No one sang, or wept or laughed. No one walked there.

For the first time in eighty-five years, Number Twelve sat empty.