Monday, February 22, 5:15 p.m.

Detective Olivia Sutherland’s eyes were tearing over her partner’s dinner. “Jennie’s going to kill you when I tell her what you’ve been eating.” She waved the air between them. “Not that I need to. Those onions will do it for me.”

“She’s out of town,” Kane said. “Back on Thursday.” He waggled his brows in a way that always made her laugh. “Could be worse. Could be sardines.”

“God, I’m glad you gave that up.” She shuddered. “I’d forgotten about those.”

“What are you doing for dinner?”

“After that thing, I have no appetite. I got a few pounds left to lose anyway.”

“You’re fine.” Which was what he always said, but Olivia knew differently. She’d gained a little weight after some surgery a few years back and she still wasn’t back to top condition. She’d expected her metabolism would slow down, but she never dreamed it would happen at thirty-one. And of course Kane could eat whatever he wanted and never gain a damn ounce. It wasn’t fair. And it was disrupting her job.

“Which was why I lost that creep this afternoon,” she muttered. To be outrun by a teenager was one thing, but to lose a middle-aged dealer whose primary exercise was the heavy breathing he did while snorting coke… She was still kicking herself.

“Liv, he caught a ride. No way he could have outrun you like that. He’s probably in the wind,” Kane said, speaking of the DA’s star witness, the dealer who’d given her the slip. “We wait until he pops his head up again. DA doesn’t need him till next week.”

“You’re right,” she murmured, then answered her cell phone, knowing it was Abbott as soon as she heard the opening bars from “Bad to the Bone.” “Sutherland.”

“I need you two on this hanger case. We need to find one Cassandra Lee. She runs a phone sex operation called Siren Song.”

“We’re looking for Dustin Hanks,” she said. “DA needs him in court.”

“This is more important. Faye’s waiting with the addresses we have for this Lee.”

Olivia handed the phone to Kane. “It’s Faye. We’re being pulled into Webster’s hanger case. And try not to get onions in my phone.”

Monday, February 22, 6:45 p.m.

At least they hadn’t cuffed her again. Eve sat alone in the interview room at the precinct. It had been almost an hour. A cup of coffee sat untouched, its aroma taunting her churning stomach. All she could see in her mind was Christy Lewis. Hanging there.

Three women were dead. Somebody killed them. And they think I know who.

You have to tell them, Eve. You have to tell them everything.

Deliberately Eve turned her head and stared at what she knew was a two-way mirror. Her own eyes stared back, dark and angry. “Fine,” she muttered. “I will.”

“Excuse me?” The door opened and Webster came through it. Jack Phelps was right behind him. Jack had spoken. “We missed that.”

“You were watching me? All this time?”

“No. We came in just as you spoke.” Webster put a bag on the table. “A sandwich.”

She pushed it away. “I can’t eat. But thank you.”

Webster sat across the table. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with your boss.”

Eve kept her face expressionless, but her stomach turned over. Donner was going to shit a ring. When this had been about suicide, it had been possible a discipline committee would have taken her side over his. But it wasn’t about suicide or Martha’s state of mind. She was a lowly grad student who’d broken double-blind. I’m on my own.

The help she’d give the police would be at her own professional peril. “My boss.”

Webster’s eyes were steady as he studied her. Something had changed from when he’d first removed her cuffs and placed her in his car back at Christy’s house. He’d been disapproving then. Now, she saw gentleness. And concern. And compassion.

Dammit. He knew. She could always tell when they knew. No one in the bar ever asked, unless they were drunk, and Sal would kick their asses out of the place. But when they found out, they’d always look, and they’d whisper.

“Yes,” he said, “your boss. We need a personnel list.”

Eve frowned. “Why?”

“Because we need to know who’s in danger there.”

A personnel list? That didn’t make any sense. She was about to tell him so when the door opened and a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties entered.

“Don’t say a word,” he cautioned. It was Callie’s defense attorney date. “I’m Matthew Nillson. I’ve been retained as Eve’s attorney. May I speak with my client?”

“When did you call a lawyer?” Webster asked.

Eve shrugged, her eyes wide. “I didn’t.”

Matt shot her a warning look. “Make sure you turn the speaker off, Detective.” When they were gone, Matt sat. “Do you know the meaning of ‘Don’t say a word’?”

She ignored that, going for the obvious issue. “I can’t afford to pay you.”

“It’s okay. I do pro bono every so often. Callie called me. She drove to the scene, but the police said you’d been taken away. She was very upset.”

“I didn’t mean to scare her. Look, Matt, I really appreciate you coming, but I don’t think I need an attorney. After today I’ll need a new career, but not an attorney.”

“Callie said you’d say you didn’t need me. Did they let you keep your cell phone?”

Eve sighed. “No.”

He nodded, as if that were all the proof he needed. “Tell me your story, Eve. Let me decide if you need me or not.”

Eve considered it. “You’re my lawyer, right? So everything we say is privileged.”

He lifted his brows. “With a few exceptions.”

“I didn’t kill anybody. But, if you can secure anonymity for my testimony, that would be a big help. So. From the beginning. Two years ago I got into grad school…”

Monday, February 22, 7:00 p.m.

Abbott, Jack, and Noah stood at the mirror, watching Eve in the interview room with Matthew Nillson, the speaker turned off. “I want to know what she knows,” Abbott said. “Damn attorneys.”

“She’s probably worried she’s in trouble for being a phone sex provider,” Jack said. “We should have questioned her in the car.”

“Why didn’t you?” Abbott asked, annoyed.

“I wanted to,” Jack said. “Mr. White Knight here wouldn’t let me say a damn word.”

Noah glared at him before returning his attention to Eve. “I wanted to know what I was dealing with.” Now he did. And it was worse than he’d ever imagined.

Abbott blew out a breath. “Now she’s lawyered up.”

“I don’t think she killed any of these women, Bruce,” Noah said. “Do you?”

“I don’t want to. But until she tells us what she knows, she’s a suspect. Got it?”

Noah opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. “Got it.”

“So what are we dealing with?” Abbott asked.

Noah didn’t take his eyes off her face, not wanting to remember all the things he’d just read about Evelyn Jayne Wilson, knowing he’d never be able to forget. “She was assaulted, almost six years ago, left for dead. In fact she did die, twice, on the way to the hospital.” Bile burned his throat, thinking of what Eve had endured. Stabbed, strangled. Assaulted. “She recovered, some. Then two years later, she was kidnapped.”

Abbott’s eyes widened. “Same perp?”

“No, different one. She was working for a shelter aiding battered women escaping their abusers. Dangerous stuff. You remember that woman in Chicago a few years back? The one that kidnapped a deaf kid, then killed something like a dozen people?”

“Yeah,” Abbott said slowly and pointed to Eve. “You mean she…”

“Was kidnapped by this killer, too. The Chicago cops credit Eve with saving the kidnapped boy’s life. She didn’t kill these women, Bruce.”

Abbott sighed heavily. “But she knows who did.”

“She knows something. I think if she knew who did it, she would have already told us.”