She took instruments out of her kit to calibrate. "The throat wound is six and a quarter inches across, approximately two inches deep." Quickly, competently, she measured and recorded the other wounds. "A knife, black-handled with carving, was left in the body in the groin area to anchor what appears to be a computer-generated note on treated paper."

She heard the shrill sound of sirens coming closer. "Uniforms," she told Roarke. "They'll secure the scene. Not much traffic out this way at this time of night."

"Fortunately."

"The body has been strapped by leather strips to a wooden structure, pentagram shape. The small amount of blood and blood patterns indicate victim was killed and mutilated elsewhere and transported to scene. Perimeter security to be scanned. Possibility of breech onto private property beyond security gate and wall. Body discovered at approximately four-thirty a.m. by Lieutenant Eve Dallas and Roarke, residents."

She turned and walked over as the first black-and-white screeched up to the curb. "I want a privacy screen employed. Now. Block off the street in a twenty-foot perimeter. I don't want gawkers here. I don't want the fucking media. Got it?"

"Sir." The two uniforms hustled out of the car and to the trunk. They wrestled out the privacy screen.

"I'm going to be awhile," she told Roarke. Taking the recorder from him, she passed it to another uniform. "You should go inside, keep an eye on the kid." Wearily, she watched the cruiser cops erect the screen. "He should call his mother or something. But I don't want him to leave until I talk to him again."

"I'll take care of it. I'll cancel my appointments for the day. I'll be available."

"That would be best." She started to touch him, wanted to badly, then realized her sealed hands were smeared with blood and dropped them again. "It would help if you kept him occupied, kept his mind off of it for now. Goddamn it, Roarke, this bites."

"A ritual killing," he murmured, and understanding, laid a hand on her cheek. "But which side did it?"

"I guess I'm going to be spending a lot of time interviewing witches." She huffed out a breath, then frowned when she saw Peabody striding double-time down the street. "Where the hell's your vehicle, Officer?"

Her uniform might have been pressed to within an inch of its life, but her face was flushed and her breathing short. "I don't have a vehicle, Lieutenant. I use city transpo. The closest public stop is four blocks from here." She slanted a look at Roarke as though it was his personal responsibility. "Rich people don't use public transportation."

"Well, requisition a damn vehicle," Eve ordered. "We'll be in as soon as we're done out here," she told Roarke, then turned away. "Body's behind the screen. Get the recorder from the uniform, I don't trust his eye, and his hands are shaking. I want measurements on the blood pool and stills of the wounds, all angles. Seal up. I don't think the sweepers are going to find much here, but I don't want anything compromised. I'll do the prelim for time of death. The ME's on the way."

Roarke watched her march off, flip through the screen, and figured she was finished with him.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Inside the house, he found Jamie, guarded by a visibly irritated Summerset. "You will not be allowed free range of this house," Summerset snapped out. "You will touch nothing. If you break one piece of crockery, soil one centimeter of fabric, I will resort to violence."

Jamie continued to pace, continued to paw the statuary in the small – and as Summerset thought of it lesser – parlor. "Well, now I'm shaking. You really put the fear of God in me, old man."

"Your manners continue to disintegrate," Roarke commented as he stepped into the room. "Someone should have taught you to show some respect for your elders."

"Yeah, well, someone should have taught your guard dog to be polite to guests."

"Guests don't tamper with security systems, climb over walls, and skulk around private property. You are not a guest."

Jamie deflated. It was tough to stand up under those cool blue eyes. "I wanted to see the Lieutenant. I didn't want anyone to know."

"Next time, try using the 'link," Roarke suggested. "It's all right, Summerset, I'll deal with this."

"As you wish." Summerset shot Jamie one last withering look, then stalked, stiff-backed, out of the room.

"Where'd you find Count Boredom?" Jamie asked and slumped into a chair. "The morgue?"

Roarke sat on the arm of a sofa, took out a cigarette. "Summerset can eat runts like you for breakfast," he said mildly and flicked on his lighter. "I've seen him."

"Right." Still Jamie sent a cautious look toward the doorway. Nothing in this house was what he'd expected, so he wouldn't underestimate the butler. "Speaking of breakfast, you got anything to eat around here? It's been like hours since I had anything."

Roarke blew out smoke. "You want me to feed you now?"

"Well, you know. We got to hang anyway. Might as well eat."

Cheeky little bastard, Roarke thought, not without admiration. Only youth, he supposed, could have an appetite after seeing what was outside the wall. "And what did you have in mind? Crepes, an omelette, perhaps a few bowls of sugar-soaked cereal?"

"I was thinking more of pizza, maybe a burger." He fixed on a winning smile. "My mom's a real nutrition fanatic. We only get health shit at home."

"It's five in the morning, and you want pizza?"

"Pizza goes down smooth anytime."

"You may be right." And he thought he could use something, himself, after all. "Let's go then."

"It's like a museum in here," Jamie said as he followed Roarke into the hall with its luminous paintings and gleaming antiques. "I mean, in a good way. You must be rolling in it."

"I must be."

"People say you just touch something and the credits fly out."

"Do they?"

"Yeah, and you didn't make all of it exactly on the upside, you know? But being hooked up with a cop like Dallas, you'd have to be straight."

"One would think," Roarke murmured and swung through a door into a huge kitchen.

"Wow. Ultimate. You got people who, like, cook things – by hand and stuff?"

"It's been known to happen." Roarke watched the boy prowl, toy with controls on the compu-range, the subzero refrigerator. "It's not going to happen this morning." He walked to a large AutoChef. "What is it then, pizza or burger?''

Jamie grinned. "Both? I could probably drink a gallon of Pepsi."

"We'll start with a tube." Roarke programmed the AutoChef, then went to the refrigerator himself. "Sit down, Jamie."

"Frigid." But he kept his eye on Roarke as he slid onto the padded bench of a breakfast nook.

After a short debate, Roarke punched in for two tubes, slipped them out of the door slot when they slid down. "You'll want to contact your mother," he said. "You can use the 'link there."

"No." Jamie put his hands under the table, rubbed them on his jeans. "She's zoned. She can't handle it. Alice. She's tranqued out. We – the viewing's tonight."

"I see." And because he did, Roarke let it drop. He handed the drink to Jamie, then took a large bubbling pizza from the AutoChef. He set it, then the burger that followed, on the table.

"Rocking A." With the appetite of the young, Jamie grabbed the burger and bit in. "Man! Man, it's meat," he said with his mouth full. "It's meat."

It took a master not to let his mouth twitch. "You'd prefer soy?" Roarke asked politely. "Veggie?"

"No way." Jamie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinned. "Really decent. Thanks."

Roarke got two plates and a slicer. He went to work on the pizza. "I suppose breaking and entering stimulates the appetite."

"I'm always hungry." Without shame, Jamie transferred the first slice to his plate. "Mom says it's growing pains, but I just like to eat. She's real worried about junk intake, so I've got to sneak real food in. You know how moms are."