"You gave mine to some rookie?"

"We were all rookies once, Dallas. Speaking of which, where's the stalwart Peabody?"

"She's outside, doing some runs. Listen, Morse, this is a tricky one."

"So they say, all the time, every time."

"I'm betting on homicide, but it was set up to look like self-termination. I need good hands and eyes on my guy."

"I don't take on anyone without them. Relax, Dallas. Stress can kill you." Unruffled, he strolled over to a 'link, put out a call for Herbert Finestein. "He'll be right along. Rochinsky, run this young lady's internals to the lab. Start the blood work."

"Morse, I've got two bodies, and the probability is that they're linked."

"Yes, yes, but that's your area." He wandered to a detox bowl, washed the soiled sealant from his hands, ran them under the radiant heat in the drying hood. "I'll look over the boy's work, Dallas, but give him a chance."

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

Morse pulled off his goggles and mask, smiled. His black hair was intricately braided to hang down to the middle of his back. He disposed of his protective suit to reveal the stunning pink of his shirt and electric blue of his trousers.

"Nice threads," Eve said dryly. "Going to another party?"

"I'm telling you, every day's a party around here."

She imagined he habitually chose snazzy clothes to distance himself from the starkness of his job, the brutality of it. Whatever works, Eve thought. Wading through blood and gore and the misery human beings inflicted on each other on a daily basis wore on you. Without an escape valve, you'd explode.

And what was hers?

"And how's Roarke?" Morse asked.

"Good. Fine." Roarke. Yes, he was hers. Before him there had just been work. Only been work. And would she have, one day, reached the limit, felt her own soul shatter?

Hell of a thought.

"Ah, here's Finestein. Be nice," Morse murmured to Eve.

"What am I?"

"An ass-kicker," Morse said pleasantly and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. "Herbert, Lieutenant Dallas would like an update on the DOS I assigned to you this afternoon."

"Yes, the Dead on-Scene. Quim, Linus, white male, fifty-six years. Cause of death strangulation by hanging." Finestein, a skinny mixed race with black skin and pale eyes, spoke in quick, piping tones and fiddled nervously with a small forest of pencils tucked in a breast pocket protector.

Not only a rookie, Eve thought with frustration, a nerd rookie.

"Did you want to review the body?"

"I'm standing here, aren't I?" Eve began, then relented with a quick gnashing of teeth when Morse's long fingers squeezed her shoulder. "Yes, thank you, I'd like to review the body and your report. Please."

"Just this way."

Eve rolled her eyes at Morse as Finestein hurried across the room. "He's fucking twelve years old."

"He's twenty-six. Patience, Dallas."

"I hate patience. Slows everything down." But she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling line of drawers, waited while Finestein uncoded one, pulled it open with a frigid puff of cold gas.

"As you can see…" Finestein cleared his throat. "There are no marks of violence on the body other than those caused by the strangulation. No offensive or defensive wounds. There were microscopic fibers of the rope found under the subject's nails, indicating he secured the rope personally. By all appearances, the subject willingly hanged himself."

"You're handing me self-termination?" Eve demanded. "Just like that? Where's the tox report, the blood work?"

"I'm – I'm getting to that, Lieutenant. There were traces of ageloxite and – "

"Give her the street names, Herbert," Morse said mildly. "She's a cop, not a scientist."

"Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Traces of um… Ease-Up were found in the victim's system, along with a small amount of home brew. This mix is quite commonly ingested by self-terminators to calm any nerves."

"This guy didn't pull his own plug, damn it."

"Yes, sir, I agree." Finestein's quiet agreement cut off Eve's tirade before it could begin.

"You agree?"

"Yes. The victim also ingested a large pretzel with considerable mustard less than an hour before death. Prior to this, he enjoyed a breakfast of wheat wafers, powdered eggs, and the equivalent of three cups of coffee."

"So?"

"If the subject knew enough to mix a cocktail of Ease-Up and alcohol before termination, he would have known that coffee can potentially counteract and cause anxiety. This, and the fact that the alcohol consumed was in very small proportion to the drug casts some doubt on self-termination."

"So, you're ruling homicide."

"I'm ruling suspicious death – undetermined." He swallowed as Eve's eyes bored into him. "Until more evidence weighs in on either side, I feel it's impossible to make the call."

"Just so. Well done, Herbert." Morse nodded. "The lieutenant will feed you details as she finds them."

Finestein looked relieved, and lie fled.

"You give me nothing," Eve complained.

"On the contrary. Herbert's given you a window. Most MEs would have slammed it shut, ruling ST. Instead, he's cautious, exacting, and thorough, and he considers the attitude of the victim rather than only the cold facts. Medically, undetermined was the best you were going to get."

"Undetermined," Eve muttered as she slid behind the wheel.

"Well, it gives us a window." Peabody glanced up from her palm unit, caught the coldly narrowed stare Eve aimed at her. "What? What did I say?"

"Next person says that, I'm throwing them out the goddamn window." She started the car. "Peabody, am I an ass-kicker?"

"Are you asking to see my scars, or is that a trick question?"

"Shut up, Peabody," Eve suggested, and headed back to Central.

"Quim had a hundred on tonight's arena ball game." Peabody's smile was thin and self-satisfied. "McNab just relayed the data. A hundred's his top bet. Odd he'd place a bet a few hours before offing himself, then not even wait around to see if he won. I've got the name and address of his bookie here. Oh, but I'm supposed to shut up. Sorry, sir."

"You want more scars?"

"I really don't. Now that I have a sex life, they're embarrassing. Maylou Jorgensen. She's got a hole in the West Village."

Peabody loved the West Village. She loved the way it ran from bohemian chic to pinstriped drones who wanted to be bohemian chic. She liked to watch the street traffic stroll by in ankle dusters or buttoned-up jumpsuits. The shaved heads, the wild tangles of multicolored curls. She liked watching the sidewalk artists pretend they were too cool to worry about selling their work.

Even the street thieves had a veneer of polish.

The glide-cart operators sold veggie kabobs plucked fresh from the fields of Greenpeace Park.

She thought longingly of dinner.

Eve pulled up in front of a tidy, rehabbed warehouse, double-parked, and turned on her On Duty sign.

"One of these days, I'd like to live in one of these lofts. All that space and a view of the street." Peabody scanned the area as she climbed from the car. "Look, there's a nice, clean deli on the corner there, and a 24/7 market on the other."

"You look for living quarters due to the proximity of food?"

"It's a consideration."

Eve flashed her badge at a security screen in working order, then entered the building. The tiny foyer boasted an elevator and four mail slots. All freshly scrubbed.

"Four units in a building this size." Peabody heaved a sigh. "Imagine."

"I'm imagining a bookie shouldn't be able to afford a place in here." On a hunch, Eve bypassed the buzzer for 2-A and used her shield to gain access to stairs. "We'll go up this way, surprise Maylou."