He courted the press, socialized with the criminal elite, owned his own Jet Star.

It was one of Eve's small pleasures to despise him.

"Let me try to get a clear picture, Lieutenant." Fitzhugh lifted his hands, bringing his thumbs together to form a bracket. "A clear picture of the circumstances that led to you attacking my client in his place of business."

The prosecuting attorney objected. Fitzhugh graciously rephrased. "You did, Lieutenant Dallas, cause my client great bodily harm on the night in question."

He glanced back at Salvatori, who had costumed himself for the occasion in a simple black suit. Following his attorney's advice, he had skipped his last three months of cosmetic and youth restoration treatments. There was gray in his hair, a sag to his face and body. He looked old, defenseless.

The jury would make the comparison, Eve imagined, between the young, fit cop and the delicate old man.

"Mr. Salvatori resisted arrest and attempted to ignite an accelerant. It was necessary to restrain him."

"To restrain him?" Slowly, Fitzhugh walked back, passing the recorder droid, moving down the jury box, drawing one of the six automated cameras with him as he laid a supporting hand on Salvatori's thin shoulder. "You had to restrain him, and that restraint resulted in a fractured jaw and a shattered arm."

Eve flicked a glance toward the jury. Several members of the panel were looking entirely too sympathetic. "That's correct. Mr. Salvatori refused my request to exit the building – and to put down the cleaver and acetylene torch in his possession."

"You were armed, Lieutenant?"

"I was."

"And you carry the standard weapon issued to members of the NYPSD?"

"I do."

"If, as you claim, Mr. Salvatori was armed and resisting, why did you fail to administer the accepted stun?"

"I missed. Mr. Salvatori was feeling pretty spry that night."

"I see. In your ten years on the police force, Lieutenant, how many times have you found it necessary to employ maximum force? To terminate?"

Eve ignored the jitter in her stomach. "Three times."

"Three?" Fitzhugh let the word hang, let the jury study the woman in the witness chair. A woman who had killed. "Isn't that a rather high ratio? Wouldn't you say that percentage indicates a predilection for violence?"

The PA surged to his feet, objecting bitterly, going into the standard line that the witness was not on trial. But of course she was, Eve thought. Cops were always on trial.

"Mr. Salvatori was armed," Eve began coolly. "I had a warrant for his arrest in the torture murders of three people. The three people whose eyes and tongues were cut out before they were set on fire and for which crime Mr. Salvatori now stands accused in this courtroom. He refused to cooperate by flinging a cleaver at my head, which threw my aim off. He then charged, knocking me to the ground. I believe his words were, 'I'm going to cut out your cop-bitch heart,' at which time we engaged in hand to hand. At that time I broke his jaw, knocked out several of his teeth, and when he swung the torch in my direction, I broke his goddamn arm."

"And you enjoyed that, Lieutenant?"

She met Fitzhugh's eyes straight on. "No, sir, I didn't. But I enjoyed staying alive."

"Slime," Eve muttered as she climbed into her vehicle.

"He won't get Salvatori off." Peabody settled in and, to take the edge off the furnace heat trapped inside, fiddled with the temperature control unit "The evidence is too clear cut. And you didn't let him shake you."

"Yes, I did." Eve scooped a hand through her hair, then headed into late-afternoon midtown traffic. The streets were choked enough to make her grit her teeth, but overhead, the sky was crisscrossed with airbuses, tourist vans, and midday commuters. "We limp along, getting pricks like Salvatori off the street, and men like Fitzhugh make fortunes slipping them back out." She jerked a shoulder. "Sometimes it pisses me off."

"Whoever slips them back out, we still limp along and slap them back in again."

With a half laugh, Eve glanced at her companion. "You're an optimist, Peabody. I wonder how long that'll last. I'm going to make a detour before we log back on," she said, changing direction on impulse. "I want to get the air of that courtroom out of my lungs."

"Lieutenant? You didn't need me in court today. Why was I there?"

"If you're going after that detective shield, Peabody, you need to see what you're up against. It's not just killers and thieves and chemi-heads. It's the lawyers."

It didn't surprise her to find the streets clogged and parking nonexistent. Philosophically, Eve nosed into an illegal zone, flipped the on-duty light on.

As she stepped out of the car, she gave a hustler on a glide-board a mild stare. He grinned, winked cheekily, then zoomed away toward more conducive surroundings.

"This area's loaded with hustlers and dealers and off-license hookers," Eve said conversationally. "That's why I love it." She opened the door to the Down and Dirty Club, stepped inside to air thick with the sour smells of cheap liquor and bad food.

Privacy rooms lining one wall were open, airing out the musky stink of stale sex.

It was a joint – one that enjoyed being seamy and just skirted the edge of health and decency laws. A holographic band had the stage and was playing listlessly for the smattering of disinterested customers.

Mavis Freestone was in an isolation booth in the back, her hair a purple fountain, two scraps of glowing silver cloth strategically draped over her small, sassy body. The way her mouth was moving, her hips swiveling, Eve was certain she was rehearsing one of her more interesting vocals.

Eve stepped up to the glass, waiting until Mavis's rolling eyes circled around and landed on her. Mavis's mouth, the same searing purple as her hair, rounded into a huge circle of delight. She did a fast boogie, then shoved the door open. An ear-shattering blast of screaming guitars burst out of the booth with her.

Mavis launched herself into Eve's arms, and though she was shouting, Eve caught only every other word over the thundering music.

"What?" Laughing, Eve slammed the door shut, shook the echo out of her head. "Christ, Mavis, what was that?"

"My new number. It's going to knock them unconscious."

"I believe it."

"You're back." Mavis gave Eve two smacking and unavoidable kisses. "Let's sit down. Let's have a drink. Tell me every detail. Leave nothing out. Hey, Peabody. Man, aren't you steaming in that uniform?"

She dragged Eve to a sticky table, punched up the menu. "What do you want? It's on me. Crack pays me pretty solid for the couple gigs a week I do here. He's going to be dredged that he missed you. Oh, I'm so glad to see you. You look terrific. You look happy. Doesn't she look terrific, Peabody? Sex is so, like, therapeutic, right?"

Eve laughed again, knowing she'd come just for this. Mindless entertainment. "Just a couple of fizz waters, Mavis. We're on duty."

"Oh, like somebody in here's going to report you. Unbutton that uniform some, Peabody. I'm getting hot just looking at you. How was Paris? How was the island? How was the resort? Did he fuck your brains out everywhere?"

"Beautiful, wonderful, interesting, and yeah, he did. How's Leonardo?"

Mavis's eyes went dreamy. She smiled and poked a silver-tipped nail onto the menu board. "He's terrific. Cohabitating's better than I thought it would be. He designed this costume for me."

Eve studied the thin silver straps that almost covered Mavis's tidy apple breasts. "Is that what you call it?"

"I've got this new number, see. Oh, I've got so much to tell you." She snagged the fizz water when it plopped through the slot. "I don't know where to start. There's this guy, this music engineer. I'm working with him. We're doing a disc, Eve – full treatment. He's sure he can peddle it. He's great, Jess Barrow. He was blazing a couple years back with his own stuff. Maybe you heard of him."