"Yes." Roarke had been informed only that morning that certain areas of the building were not cleared.

"We're not supposed to pass the police barriers onstage or back. Super said they'll give you a bitch of a shock if you try to mess with them."

"Super is quite correct."

"So, I'm just supposed to deal with the bathrooms is all. I popped for it 'cause I can use the money, you know?"

"Yes." Roarke straightened, smiled at the boy. "I know very well. Well then, Ralph is it? We'll just go in and see what's what."

"Sure." There was an audible gulp as Ralph stepped inside behind Roarke. "You know, they say a murderer always returns, like, to the scene of his crime."

"Do they?" Roarke's voice was mild as he scanned the area. "You'll learn there's very little always in the world, Ralph. But it's possible they could be right this time around."

The rooms beyond the anteroom were dark, but there was a backwash of light shining up the stairs from the lower level. Roarke started down, tucked a hand in his pocket where he'd slipped a small, illegal-for-civilian-use stunner when he'd gotten the call of a potential break-in.

He followed the glow toward the under-stage area.

He smelled home brew, the just-going-sour punch of it, and a nasty undertone he recognized as death.

"Yes, I'm afraid they're right this time," he murmured, then turned the corner.

"Oh, shit. Oh, man." Ralph's voice jumped over the words, and his eyes goggled at the figure dangling from a stout length of rope. "Is that a guy?"

"It was. If you're going to be sick, there's no shame in it, but find another place."

"Huh?"

Roarke glanced back. The boy's face was sheet white, his eyes going glassy. To keep it simple, Roarke simply pressed a hand on Ralph's shoulder and lowered him to the floor. "Put your head down, take slow breaths. That's the way, son. You'll do fine."

Turning from the boy, Roarke walked to the hanged man. "Poor, stupid bastard," he thought aloud, and took out his palm 'link to call his wife.

"Dallas. What? Roarke, I can't talk to you now. I'm up to my neck here."

"Speaking of necks. I'm looking at one now that's been considerably stretched. You'll need to come to the theater, Lieutenant, lower level. I've found another body for you."

Death demanded routine, even if the primary investigator's husband discovered the body.

"Can you identify him?" she asked Roarke, and signaled for Peabody to record the scene.

"Quim. Linus Quim. I checked the employment records after I called you. Head stagehand. He was fiftysix. Divorced, no children. He lived on Seventh – alone, according to his file."

"Did you know him personally?"

"No."

"Okay, stand by. Peabody, get me a ladder. I don't want to use this one until we've done a full sweep. Who's the kid?" she asked Roarke.

"Ralph Biden. One of the janitorial team. He was going to work solo today, saw the stage door was unlocked, and called it in."

"Give me times," Eve demanded as she studied the angle of the fallen ladder, the pattern of shattered glass from the broken brew bottle.

After one long stare, Roarke took out his log. "He contacted maintenance control at eleven twenty-three. I was alerted six minutes later and arrived on-scene at noon, precisely. Is that exact enough to satisfy, Lieutenant?"

She knew the tone and couldn't help it if he decided to be annoyed. Still, she scowled at his back and he walked away to take a small stepladder from Peabody.

"Did you or the kid touch anything?"

"I know the routine." Roarke set the ladder under the body. "Nearly as well as you by now."

She merely grunted, shouldered her field kit, and started up the ladder.

Hanging is an unpleasant death, and the shell left behind reflects it. It bulges the eyes, purples the face. He hadn't weighed more than one-twenty, Eve thought. Not enough, not nearly enough for the weight to drop down fast and heavy and mercifully snap his neck.

Instead, he'd choked to death, slowly enough to be aware, to fight, to regret.

With hands coated with Seal-It, she tugged the single sheet of cheap recycled paper out of his belt. After a quick scan, she handed the paper down. "Bag it, Peabody."

"Yes, sir. Self-termination?"

"Cops who jump to conclusions trip over same and fall on their asses. Call for a Crime Scene team, alert the ME we have an unattended death."

Chastised, Peabody pulled out her communicator.

Eve logged time of death for the recorder and examined the very precise hangman's knot. "Why self-termination, Officer Peabody?"

"Ah… subject is found hanged to death, a traditional method of self-termination, in his place of employment. There is a signed suicide note, a broken bottle of home brew with a single glass. There are no apparent signs of struggle or violence."

"First, people have been hanged as an execution method for centuries. Second, we have no evidence at this time the subject wrote the note found on-scene. Last, until a full examination of the body is complete, we cannot determine if there are other marks of violence. Even if there are not," Eve continued, backing down the ladder, "a man can be coerced into a noose."

"Yes, sir."

"On. the surface, it looks like self-termination. It's not our job to stop at the surface and assume but to observe, record, gather evidence, and eventually conclude."

Eve stepped away, studied the scene. "Why would a man come here to an empty theater; sit and drink a glass of brew; write a brief note; fashion himself a nice, tidy noose; secure it; walk up a ladder; then step off?"

Since she understood she was expected to answer, Peabody gave it her best. "The theater is his workplace. Self-terminators often take this step in their place of employment."

"I'm talking about Quim, Linus. Specifics, Peabody, not generalities."

"Yes, sir. If he was responsible for Draco's death, which could be the meaning of the note, he may have been overcome by guilt, and he returned here, to where Draco was killed, balancing the scales by taking his own life under the stage."

"Think of the profile, Peabody. Think of the original crime and its method of execution. I find calculation, ruthlessness, and daring. Tell me, where do you find guilt?"

With this, Eve strode off to where Ralph was sitting, pale and silent in a corner.

"Screwed that up," Peabody muttered. "Big time." She blew out a breath, trying not to be embarrassed she'd had her wings pinned in front of Roarke. "She's pissed now."

"She's angry. Not at you, particularly," Roarke added, "nor at me." He looked back at the corpse, the pathetic waste of it, and understood his wife perfectly. "Death offends her. Each time. Every time she deals with it."

"She'll tell you that you can't take it personally."

"Yes." He watched Eve sit beside Ralph, automatically shielding his view of death with her body. "She'll tell you that."

He could be patient. Roarke knew how to wait, to choose his time and his place. Just as he knew that Eve would seek him out, would find him, if for no other reason than to assure herself he hadn't stuck his fingers too deeply into her work.

So he sat on the stage, still dressed with the final courtroom set. An odd place for a man with his background, he thought with some amusement, as he used his personal palm computer to scan updated stock reports and revise a departmental memo.

He'd turned the stage lights on, though that had simply been for convenience. When she tracked him down, he sat in the dock under a cool blue spot, and he looked as seductive as a condemned angel.