That was a thought.

The Linus Quim Theater. Had a ring to it.

At the base of the stairs, he turned right, down the twisty corridor. He was humming now, happy in his own space, bubbling lightly with anticipation of what was to come.

An arm snaked out, hooked around his neck. He yelped, more in surprise than fear, started to turn.

Fumes poured into his mouth and nose. His vision blurred, his head rang. He couldn't feel his extremities.

"What? What?"

"You need a drink." The voice whispered in his ear, friendly, comforting. "Come on, Linus, you need a drink. I got the bottle out of your locker."

His head drooped down, weighing like a stone on his skinny neck. All he could see behind his eyelids were bleeding colors. His feet shuffled over the floor as he was gently led to a seat. He swallowed obediently when a glass was held to his lips.

"There, that's better, isn't it?"

"Dizzy."

"That'll pass." The voice stayed soft and soothing. "You'll just feel very calm. The tranq's mild. Hardly more than a kiss. You just sit there. I'll take care of everything."

"Okay." He smiled vaguely. "Thanks."

"Oh, it's no trouble."

The noose had already been prepared from a long length of rope culled from the fly floor. Gloved hands slipped it smoothly around Linus's neck, snugged and straightened it.

"How do you feel now, Linus?"

"Pretty good. Pretty damn good. I thought you'd be pissed."

"No." But there was a sigh that might have been regret.

"I'm taking the money and going to Tahiti."

"Are you? I'm sure you'll enjoy that. Linus, I want you to write something for me. Here's your pen. That's the way. Here's the pad you always use to make your notes. You never use an e-pad, do you?"

"Paper's good enough for me, goddamn it." He hiccupped, grinned.

"Of course. Write this down, would you? 'I did it.' That's all you have to say. Just write 'I did it,' then sign your name. Perfect. That's just perfect."

"I did it." He signed his name in a stingy little scrawl. "I figured it out."

"Yes, you did. That was very clever of you, Linus. Are you still dizzy?"

"Nope. I feel okay. I feel fine. Did you bring money? I'm going to Tahiti. You did everybody a favor by wasting that stupid bastard."

"Thank you. I thought so, too, Let's stand up now. Steady?"

"As a rock."

"Good. Would you do me a favor? Could you climb up the ladder here? I'd like you to loop this end of the rope over that pole and tie it off. Nice and snug. Nobody ties knots like a veteran stagehand."

"Sure thing." He went up, humming.

On the ground, his killer watched with heart-thrumming anticipation. There had been fear when the note had arrived. Tidal waves of fear and panic and despair.

Those were done now. Had to be done. Only mild irritation and the spur of challenge remained.

How to deal with it? The answer had come so smoothly, so clearly. Eliminate the threat, give the police their killer. All in one stroke.

In moments, only moments now, it would all be done.

"All tied off!" Linus called. "She'll hold."

"I'm sure. Oh no, Linus, don't walk back down."

Confused, he shifted on the ladder, looked down at the smiling face below. "Don't walk down?"

"No. Jump. Jump off the ladder, Linus. Won't that be fun? Just like jumping into the pretty blue water in Tahiti."

"Like in Tahiti? That's where I'm going once I'm flush."

"Yes, like Tahiti." The laughter was delighted, encouraging. A careful ear might have heard the strain beneath it, but Linus only laughed in return. "Come on, Linus. Dive right in! The water's fine."

He grinned, held his nose. And jumped.

This time death wasn't quiet. The panicked, kicking feet knocked the ladder down with a thunderous clatter. It hit the bottle of brew in an explosion of glass. Choked gasps forced their way through the tightened noose, became rattles. For seconds, only seconds, but the air seemed to scream with them.

And then there was only the faint creak of the rope swinging. Like the creak of a mast in high seas, it was curiously romantic.

"Weighing in Mira's profile of the killer, the scales drop on the side of a performer. An actor," Eve continued. "Or someone who wants or wanted to be one."

"Well, you got your headliners." Feeney stretched out his legs. "Your second string, your extras. Add them all up, you still got more than thirty potentials. You add the wanna-bes to that, and Christ knows."

"We divvy them up and cut them down. The same way Baxter should cut down audience members."

Feeney spread his lips in a grin. "We heard his whining all the way over in EDD."

"Then my job there is done. We factor in connections to the victim," Eve went on, "placement during the last act. We haul the most probables into Interview and start sweating them."

McNab shifted in his chair, lifted a finger. "It's still possible that the killer was someone in the audience. Somebody who knew Draco, had theater experience. Even working Baxter and whoever he drags into it with him twenty-four/seven on probabilities and backgrounds, it'll take weeks to eliminate."

"We don't have weeks," Eve shot back. "This is high profile. Pressure's going to build on The Tower," she said, referring to the office of the commissioner. "That means it's going to squeeze us, and squeeze us soon. We run the audience as Baxter passes on potentials, and keep running them until we whittle it down. Meantime, we focus on the stage."

She moved to the board where the stills of the murder scene, the body, the graphs and charts from the probability scans and background checks run to date were already tacked.

"This wasn't a spree killing. It wasn't an impulse. It was planned, staged. It was performed. And it was recorded. I've got copies of the discs for everyone. We're going to watch the play, each of us, study it until we know the lines, the moves, so well we could go on the road with it ourselves.

"It's about twisting the law," she murmured. "About playing with it. And in the end, it's about a kind of justice. The murderer might see Draco's death that way. A kind of justice."

Feeney rattled the sugared nuts in the bag in his pocket. "Nobody loved him."

"Then we figure out who hated him most."

The boy's name was Ralph, and he looked both terrified and excited. He wore a battered Yankees jacket over his dull brown janitorial uniform. He either had a very bad haircut or, Roarke supposed, was sporting some new fashion. Whichever, he was forced to blow, sweep, or shake the ragged streams of dark hair out of his eyes on a continual basis.

"I didn't think you'd come yourself, sir." Part of Ralph's panicked excitement came from the idea of speaking face-to-face with the legendary Roarke. Everybody knew the man was totally ice. "Orders are to report anything out of the ordinary to control, so when I saw how the stage door wasn't locked and coded, I figured how I should report it right off."

"That's right. Did you go inside?"

"Well, I…" Ralph didn't see any point in admitting his over-active imagination hadn't let him get two feet beyond the door. "I started to, you know. Then I saw how there were lights on that aren't supposed to be on. I thought it was smarter to stay out here and… be guarding the door, like."

"Good thinking." Roarke crouched down, studied the locks, glanced up idly at the security camera. Its indicator light was off, and it shouldn't have been. "Do you usually work alone?"

"Oh no, sir. But since, you know, the building's closed because of that guy getting dead and stuff, my super asked one of the cleaning crew to volunteer for light maintenance. With the whole deal on opening night, nobody ever got to cleaning the bathrooms and stuff. The super, he said how the cops gave us clearance to go back in since they got what they needed already."