Vengeance in Death

CHAPTER TWELVE

Eve paced the reception area outside Mira's office. What the hell was taking so long, she wondered, and checked her wrist unit once again. It was twelve-thirty. Summerset had been in testing for ninety minutes. Eve had until one to present her progress reports to her commander.

She needed Mira's findings.

To help herself wait, she practiced her oral backup to her written reports. The words she would use, the tone she would take. She felt like a second-rate actor running lines backstage. Sweat pooled at the base of her spine.

The minute the door opened, she leaped at Summerset. "What's the deal?"

His eyes were dark and hard in a pale face, his jaw clenched, his mouth thin. Humiliation rolled greasily in his stomach. "I've followed your orders, Lieutenant, and completed the required testing. I've sacrificed my privacy and my dignity. I hope that satisfies you."

He stalked past her and through the outer doors.

"Screw it," Eve muttered and walked straight into Mira's office.

Mira smiled, sipped her tea. She'd had no trouble hearing Summerset's bitter comments. "He's a complicated man."

"He's an ass, but that's irrelevant. Can you give me a bottom line?"

"It will take some time for me to review all the tests and complete my report."

"I've got Whitney in twenty minutes. I'll take anything you can give me."

"A preliminary opinion then." Mira poured another cup of tea, gesturing for Eve to sit. "He's a man with little respect for the law, and a great deal of respect for order."

Eve took the tea but didn't drink. "Which means?"

"He's most comfortable when things are in their place, and he's somewhat obsessive about keeping them there. The law itself, the laws society makes mean little to him as they are variable, often poorly designed, and quite often fail. Aesthetics are also important to him – his surroundings, appearances – as he appreciates the order in beauty. He's a creature of routine. This soothes him, this pattern, this stability. He arises at a certain hour and retires at a certain hour. His duties are clearly outlined and followed. Even his recreation, his free time is organized."

"So, he's a tight-ass. I already knew that."

"His way of dealing with the horrors he witnessed during the Urban Wars, the poverty and despair he escaped from, and the loss of his only child is to create a certain acceptable pattern, then follow it. But… in unclinical terms, yes, he's a tight-ass. However rigid he might be, however much he may sneer at the laws of society, he is one of the most non-violent personalities I've encountered."

"He's given me a few bruises," Eve muttered under her breath.

"You disturb his need for order," Mira said, not without sympathy. "But the fact is, true violence is abhorrent to him. It offends his very rigid sense of order and place. And it's wasteful. He finds waste repellent. Again, I believe, because he saw far too much of it throughout his life. As I said, it will take a bit of time to review the tests, but I would say at this point it's my opinion that someone of his personality structure is unlikely to have committed the crimes you're investigating."

For the first time in hours, Eve's stomach unknotted. "This knocks him down the list. Way down. I appreciate you dealing with this so quickly."

"I'm always happy to do a friend a favor, but after reading your data on this investigation, it's a bit more than that. Eve, you're dealing with a very dangerous, very canny, very determined and thorough killer. One who has had years to prepare, and be prepared. One who is both focused and unstable, and who has a massive and unstable ego. A sociopath with a holy mission, a sadist with skill. I'm afraid for you."

"I'm closing in on him."

"I hope you are, because I believe he's also closing in on you. Roarke may be his main target, but you stand between. He wants Roarke to bleed, and he wants him to suffer. Roarke's death puts an end to the mission, and the mission is his life. But you, you're his connection, his competitor, his audience. He has a black-and-white view of women. Chaste or whore."

Eve let out a short laugh. "Well, I can figure where I stand."

"No." Disturbed, Mira shook her head. "It's more complicated with you. He admires you. You challenge him. And you anger him. I don't believe he's able to slip you into either mold and that only makes him more focused on you."

Her eyes glinted. "I want him focused on me."

Mira held her hands up a moment to give herself time to gather her thoughts. "I need further study, but in a nutshell, his faith, his religion is catalyst – or excuse, if you prefer. He leaves the token – faith and luck – at every murder. He leaves the image of Mary as a symbol of her female power and her vulnerability. She's his real god."

"I don't follow you."

"The Mother. The Virgin. The pure and the loving. But an authority figure nonetheless. She is the witness to his acts, the audience to his mission. At this point, I'd have to say it's a woman who formed him. A strong and vital female figure of authority and love. He needs her approval, her guidance. He needs to please her. He needs her praise."

"His mother," Eve murmured. "Do you think she's behind it all?"

"It's possible. Or just as possible that he sees his current behavior as a kind of homage to her. Mother, sister, aunt, wife. A wife is unlikely," she added with a faint shake of her head. "He's probably sexually repressed. Impotent. His god is a vengeful one, who permits no carnal pleasures. If he's using the statue to symbolize his own mother, he would view his conception as a miracle – immaculate – and see himself as invulnerable."

"He said he was an angel. The angel of vengeance."

"Yes, a soldier of his god, beyond the power of mortals. There is his ego again. What I am sure of is that there is a woman – or was a woman – whom he seeks to appease, and one he views as pure."

For one sickening moment, Eve saw the image of Marlena in her mind. Golden hair, innocent eyes, and a snowy white dress. Pure, she thought. Virginal.

Wouldn't Summerset always see his martyred daughter exactly that way?

"It could be a child," she said quietly. "A lost child."

"Marlena?" The compassion was ripe in the word. "It's very unlikely, Eve. Does he mourn for her? Of course he does, and always will. But she isn't a symbol to him. For Summerset, Marlena is his child, and one he didn't protect. For your killer, this female figure is the protector – and the punisher. And you are another strong female figure of authority. He's drawn to you, wants your admiration. And he may, at some point, be compelled to destroy you."

"I hope you're right." Eve rose. "Because this is a game I want to finish face-to-face."

Eve convinced herself she was prepared for Whitney. But she hadn't been prepared to face both him and the chief of police and security. Tibble, his dark face unreadable, his hands clasped militarily behind his back, stood at the window in Whitney's office. Whitney remained behind his desk. Their positioning indicated to Eve that it was Whitney's show – until Tibble decided otherwise.

"Before you begin your report, Lieutenant, I'm informing you that a press conference is scheduled for four p.m. in the media information center at Police Tower." Whitney inclined his head. "Your presence and participation are required."

"Yes, sir."

"It has come to our attention that a member of the press has received certain communications which attack your credibility as primary in this investigation, and which indicate that you, and therefore the department, are suppressing certain data germane to said investigation, data that would implicate your husband in multiple murders."

"That is both insulting to me, the department, and my husband, and absurd." Her heart hitched, but her voice stayed low and steady. "If these communications are deemed credible, why hasn't the member of the press reported same?"

"The accusations are so far anonymous and unsubstantiated, and this particular member of the press deemed it in his best interest to pass this information along to Chief Tibble. It's in your best interest, Lieutenant, to clear up this matter now, here."

"Are you accusing me of suppressing evidence, Commander?"

"I'm requesting that you confirm or deny at this time."

"I deny, at this time, and any time, that I have or would suppress evidence that would lead to the apprehension of a criminal or the closing of a case. And I take personal offense at the question."

"Offense so noted," Whitney said mildly. "Sit down, Dallas."

She didn't comply, but stepped forward. "My record should stand for something. Over ten years of service should outweigh an anonymous accusation tossed to a hungry reporter."

"So noted, Dallas," Whitney repeated. "Now – "

"I'm not finished, sir. I'd like to have my say here."

He sat back, and though she kept her eyes on his she knew Tibble had yet to move. "Very well, Lieutenant, have your say."

"I'm very aware that my personal life, my marriage, is the source of speculation and interest in the department and with the public. I can live with that. I'm also aware that my husband's businesses, and his style of conducting his businesses, are also the source of speculation and interest. I have no particular problem with that. But I resent very much that my reputation and my husband's character should be questioned this way. From the media, Commander, it's to be expected, but not from my superior officer. Not from any member of the department I've served to the best of my ability. I want you to take note, Commander, that turning in my badge would be like cutting off my arm. But if it comes down to a choice between the job and my marriage, then I lose the arm."

"No one is asking you to make a choice, Lieutenant, and I will offer my personal apologies for any offense given by this situation."

"Personally, I hate chicken-shit anonymous sources." Tibble spoke for the first time, his gaze steady on Eve's face. "And I'd like to see you maintain that just-under-simmer righteous anger for the press conference when this matter comes up, Lieutenant. It will play very well on screen. Now I, for one, would like to hear the progress of your investigation."

The anger helped her forget fear and nerves. She fell into rhythm, comfortable with the cop speak, the formality and the slang of it. She offered the names of the six men responsible for Marlena's murder, handed out hard copy of data on them, and proposed her theory.

"The caller stated that revenge was the name of his game. Therefore it's my belief that, acting alone or with a partner or partners, this individual is avenging the murder of one or more of these men. The connection's there. Marlena to Summerset, Summerset to Roarke. I've run the names and their cases through the ICCA."

She said that briskly, as though it was no more than routine. And her stomach jumped like a pond of frogs on speeders. "There is no evidence to link their murders to one individual. They were killed at different times over a three-year period, with different methods and in different geographical areas. The six men, however, were all linked to the same gambling organization based in Dublin, and that organization was investigated for illegal activities no less than twelve times by local authorities and the ICCA. Data supports that the men were killed individually and for separate motives, likely perpetrated by rivals or associates."

"Then where's the connection to the deaths of Brennen, Conroy, and O'Leary?"

"In the killer's mind. Dr. Mira is working on the profile, which I believe will support my suppositions. If you take it from his angle, Marlena was killed by these men as an example to Roarke, to discourage him from infringing on their territory."

"That wasn't the conclusion of the investigating officer."

"No, sir, but the investigating officer was a wrong cop, known to associate with this organization. He was in their pocket. Marlena was no more than a child." Eve slid two photos out of her bag, one still taken from each of the hologram images. "This is what was done to her. And the investigating officer spent precisely four and a half man-hours on closing her case and ruling it death by misadventure."

Whitney stared down at the stills, and his eyes went grim. "Misadventure, my ass. It's obviously a torture murder."

"One defenseless girl brutalized by six men. And they got away with it clean. Men who can do that to a child are men who could brag about it. I believe those close to them knew, and when they were killed, one by one, at least one person decided Roarke and Summerset were responsible."

Tibble turned the still of Marlena's body facedown. He'd been away from the streets long enough to know he'd be haunted by that image. "And you don't believe that, Lieutenant? You want us to believe that those six deaths were unrelated, but that our current madman believes otherwise. And you want us to believe he's killing now, framing Summerset, and all to exact revenge on Roarke?"

"That's exactly right. I want you to believe that the man Mira described to me as a sadistic sociopath with a holy mission is using all the skill at his disposal to ruin Roarke. Framing Summerset was a miscalculation, and you'll see when Mira has completed her test evaluations on him. She's told me in a preliminary interview that Summerset is not only incapable of this range of violence, but is appalled by violence. The circumstantial evidence compiled against him is obvious enough for a cross-eyed five-year-old to see through."

"I prefer to withhold judgment on that until I see Mira's completed evaluation," Whitney told her.

"I can give you mine," she said, and threw her weight on Summerset's end of the scale. "The security discs at the Luxury Towers were doctored. We know this. However, the lobby sector – which clearly shows Summerset's entrance into the building – was untouched. Why? McNab has the disc of the twelfth floor being analyzed by the EDD compu-unit. I'm confident that we'll discover a blip for the period when Summerset exited the elevator and waited for Ms. Morrell. And again, in the lobby sector where he's indicated he left the building at approximately twelve forty."

"The extent of tampering you're indicating would require very specialized skill and equipment."

"Yes, sir. So does jamming transmissions into Cop Central. Religion plays a vital part in the motive and method of these killings. The evidence points to a strong, if twisted, attachment to Catholicism. Summerset isn't Catholic nor is he particularly religious."

"A man's faith," Whitney put in, "is often a private and intimate matter."

"Not with this man it isn't. For him, it's a driving force. I have more. This morning Detective McNab, who was assigned to me from EDD, found what he referred to as an echo on my 'link transmission from the perpetrator. The transmission did not originate in my home, but someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it appear as if it did."

Whitney said nothing until he'd scanned the report Eve offered. "This is good work."

"One of the Riley brothers did a stint on security for a large electronics firm – and he's also made several trips to New York in the last ten years. I'd like to pursue that angle."

"Are you planning on going to Ireland, Lieutenant?" Training prevented her from gaping.

"No, sir. I can access any necessary data from here."

Whitney tapped a finger on the reports. "I'd consider it, seriously consider it."

Press conferences rarely put Eve in a cheery mood. The free-for-all at the media center was no exception. It was bad enough to be ordered to stand in front of a sea of reporters and tap dance around what was, what should be, and what wasn't, tricky enough when the questions batted to her dealt with her professional area. But many of the questions during the slated hour took a personal curve. She had to field them quickly, skillfully, and without breaking a sweat.

She knew damn well reporters could smell sweat.

"Lieutenant Dallas, as primary investigator, have you questioned Roarke in connection with these murders?"

"Roarke has cooperated with the department."

"Was his cooperation elicited by the primary, or by his wife?"

Snake-eyed, flat-faced son of a bitch, Eve thought, staring the reporter down and ignoring the autotronic cameras that slid spiderlike in her direction. "Roarke volunteered his statements and his assistance from the initiation of this investigation."

"Isn't it true that your prime suspect is in Roarke's employ and resides in your home?"

"At this point in the investigation we have no prime suspect." That brought on the growl from the wolf pack, the shouted questions, the demands. She waited them out. "Lawrence Charles Summerset was interviewed formally and has voluntarily undergone testing. As a result of this, the department and the primary are now pursuing other investigative channels."

"What is your response to the supposition that Summerset murdered three people on orders from his employer?"

The shouted question from the back had the effect of smothering the shouts. For the first time in nearly an hour, there was silence. Even as Chief Tibble stepped forward, Eve held up a hand. "I'd like to answer that." Fury might have clawed at her throat, but her voice was cold and level. "My response is that suppositions of that nature have no place in this forum. They belong in tiny rooms where they can be discussed by tiny minds. Such a supposition when voiced publicly, particularly by a member of the media, falls into the category of criminal negligence. Such an innuendo, with no facts or evidence to support it, is an insult not only to the men involved, but to the dead. I have nothing more to say here."

She stepped around Tibble and off the platform. She could hear the questions being shouted out at him, and his calm, reasonable voice answering. But she had blood in her eye and a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Dallas! Dallas, hold on." Nadine Furst rushed after her, her camera operator in hot pursuit. "Give me two minutes, come on. Two lousy minutes."

Eve turned on her, knowing that it would be a miracle if she held on to her temper for two seconds. "Don't get in my face here, Nadine."

"Look, that last one was over the line, no question. But you've got to expect to take some heat here."

"I can handle heat. I don't see why I have to handle morons, too."

"I'm with you there."

"Are you?" Out of the corner of her eye, Eve noted that the camera operator was recording.

"Let me help you out here." Instinctively Nadine smoothed down her hair, hitched her jacket into a perfect line. "Give me a statement, a quick one-on-one to balance things out."

"Give you a ninety-second exclusive, you mean, and bump your rating points. Jesus." Eve turned away before she could do or say something regrettable.

Then Mira's words came back to her. The massive and fragile ego of the murderer. His focus on her – the need for female approval. She wasn't certain if it was impulse or instinct, but she went with it.

She'd give Nadine her ratings boost, all right. And she'd take a nice hard slap at the killer. One she hoped he'd feel honor bound to try to return.

"Who the hell do you people think you are?" She whirled back, let her temper boil over. She had no doubt it would show, in her face, in her clenched fists. "Using your First Amendment rights, your public's right to know, to interfere with a murder investigation."

"Wait just a minute."

"No, you wait." Eve jabbed a finger into Nadine's shoulder, knocking her back a step. "Three people are dead, children are orphaned, a woman is widowed, and all because some self-absorbed piece of shit with a God complex decided to play games. There's your story, pal. Some asshole who thinks Jesus speaks to him is playing the media like a damn banjo. The more air time you give him, the happier he is. He wants us to believe he has a higher purpose, but all he really wants is to win. And he won't. He won't because I'm better than he is. This jerk's an amateur who had a short run of luck. As long as he keeps screwing up I'll have him caged in a week."

"And you'll stand by that, Lieutenant Dallas," Nadine said coldly. "You'll apprehend the killer within a week."

"You can count on it. He's not the smartest I've gone after, he's not even the most pathetic. He's just one more tiny pimple on society's butt."

She turned and stalked off.

"That's going to make great screen, Nadine." The camera operator all but danced for joy. "Ratings through the roof."

"Yeah." Nadine watched Eve slam into her car. "And so much for friendship," she muttered. "Let's transmit it raw to the station. We'll have it on air in time for the five-thirty."

Eve was counting on it. Her man would see it. Maybe he'd stew, maybe he'd explode, but she had no doubt he'd make a move. His ego would demand it.

And this time, he'd come after her.

She headed into Cop Central. She thought it would do her good to work a few hours in her usual environment. As an afterthought, she called home. When Roarke answered himself, Eve's eyebrows shot up.

"Where's Summerset?"

"In his quarters."

"Sulking?"

"Painting, I believe. He thought it would relax him. And where are you, Lieutenant?"

"On my way in to Central for a while. Just wrapped up a press conference."

"And we know how much you enjoy them. I'll be sure to tune in for the five-thirty."

She didn't wince, at least not visibly. "I wouldn't bother. It was pretty dull. Look, I figured you'd be at your headquarters. There's no reason to put your world on hold because of this."

"My world continues to revolve. I can handle details from here for a bit longer. Besides, Ian and I are having such a good time playing with our toys."

"Getting anywhere?"

"I think so. It's slow."

"I'll take a look when I get there. Couple of hours."

"Fine. I believe we're having pizza."

"Good, make mine loaded. See you."

She cut transmission as she drove into the underground lot at Central. She took a minute to curse, as Lieutenant Medavoy from Anti-Crime had once again parked crookedly and infringed on her space. She squeezed in, indulged herself by rapping her door smartly against the side of his vehicle.

A new one, too, she thought, noting the shiny surface now nicely dinged. Where the hell does Anti-Crime get the budget?

Fifteen minutes to air, she noted as she took the glide into the core of Central. She'd get herself some coffee, lock her office door, and watch the show.

She wasn't disappointed. Her impromptu statement to Nadine came across exactly as intended. She'd appeared furious, overconfident, and reckless. It was going to bum his ass, she decided, and wondered if she had time for another cup of coffee before Whitney summoned her.

She didn't have time for another sip.

She accepted the expected dressing down without argument or excuse, agreed that her comments had been unwise and over-emotional.

"No pithy remarks, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

"What are you up to here, Dallas?"

She shifted gears swiftly, smoothly, realizing she'd been just a bit too conciliatory. "My armpit's in this investigation, one that is causing a great deal of stress on my personal life. I blew off steam, and I apologize. It won't happen again."

"Be sure that it doesn't, and contact Ms. Furst. I want you to offer her another one-on-one, this time with you in control of your emotions."

Eve didn't have to feign the annoyance now. "I'd like to avoid the media for the near future, Commander. I think – "

"That wasn't a request, Lieutenant. It was an order. You made the mess, now clean it up. And quickly."

Eve closed her mouth, teeth first, and nodded.

She worked off her temper for the next hour by dealing with paperwork, and when that didn't do the trick, she contacted maintenance and scalded their ears over the as-yet unrepaired guidance system in her vehicle. Calmer, she drafted an e-message for Nadine offering another interview and shot it off before she could brood about it.

And throughout it all she waited for her 'link to beep. She wanted him to call, willed him to call. The sooner he made his move, the sloppier he would be.

Who is he? Sociopath, sadist, egotist. Yet, there was something weak and sad and even pathetic about him. Riddles and religion, she mused. Well, that wasn't so strange. Religion was a riddle to her. Believe this, and only this, because we say so. If you don't you're buying a one-way ticket to everlasting Hell.

Organized religion baffled her, made her vaguely uncomfortable. Each had followers who were so sure they were right, that their way was the only way. And throughout history they'd fought wars and shed oceans of blood to prove it.

Eve shrugged, idly picked up one of the three statues of the Madonna she'd lined on her desk. She'd been raised by the state, and a state education was forbidden, by law, to include even a whiff of religious training. Church groups were forever lobbying to change that, but Eve thought she'd done well enough. She'd formed her own opinions. There was right and wrong, the law and chaos, crime and punishment.

Still, religion, at its best, was supposed to guide and to comfort, wasn't it? She glanced at the pile of discs she'd amassed in her research of the Catholic faith. It remained a mystery to her, but she thought it was supposed to. That was its core, the mystery shrouded in pomp and pageantry. And its rituals were lovely and visually appealing.

Like the Virgin. Eve turned the statue in her hand, studying it. What had Roarke called her? The BVM. It made her sound friendly, accessible, like someone you could take your troubles to.

I can't quite work this one out, I'll ask the BVM.

Yet she was the holiest of women. The ultimate female figure. The Virgin Mother who'd been called on to bear the Son of God, then watch him die for the sins of man.

Now there was a madman using her image, twisting it, using it to stand witness to man's inhumanity to man.

But mother was the key, wasn't it? she mused. His mother, or someone he viewed as that figure of love and authority.

Eve couldn't remember her mother. Even in the dreams she was powerless to control there was nothing and no one in that role. No voice soft in lullaby or raised in anger, no hand stroking gently or slapping in annoyance.

Nothing.

Yet someone had carried her for nine months, had shot her from womb to world. Then had – what? Turned away, run away? Died? Left her alone to be beaten and broken and defiled. Left her shivering in cold, dirty rooms waiting for the next night of pain and abuse.

Doesn't matter, Eve reminded herself fiercely. That wasn't the point. It was this man's background that mattered now, what had formed him.

Eve Dallas had formed herself.

Gently she set the statue down again, staring into that serene and lovely face. "Just another sin on his plate," she murmured, "using you as part of his obscenities. I have to stop him before he does it again. I could use a little help here."

Eve caught herself, blinked in shock, then laughed a little as she ran a hand through her hair. The Catholics were pretty clever, she decided, with their statues. Before you knew it you were talking to them – and it was a hell of a lot like praying.

It isn't prayers that will bring him down, she reminded herself. It was police work, and she'd be more productive at home. A decent meal, a good night's sleep would keep her primed.

She discovered Medavoy's car was gone when she reached the garage, and since there was no memo stuck to her windshield she assumed he had yet to notice the new dent in his passenger-side door.

The garage echoed around her. She heard the whine of an engine starting up, the quick skid of tires on asphalt. Seconds later a unit bulleted by. The sirens hit the air as the car zipped out of the garage and into the night.

She uncoded her locks, reached for the handle. Footsteps sounded behind her. She whirled, her weapon in her hand, her body in a crouch.

The footsteps skidded to a halt, and the man threw up his hands. "Whoa. At least read me my rights."

She recognized the detective from her unit and reholstered her weapon. "Sorry, Baxter."

"Jumpy, aren't we, Dallas?"

"People shouldn't go skulking around garages."

"Hey, I'm just heading to my vehicle." He winked as he uncoded a car two down from hers. "Got myself a hot date with a saucy senorita."

"Ole, Baxter," she muttered and, annoyed with herself, slid behind the wheel. It took three tries for the engine to catch. She decided she would go to maintenance personally in the morning and murder the first mechanic who crossed her path.

The temperature control hummed straight to warm, then shot into roast. Eve ordered it off with a snarl and settled for the late November chill.

She drove two blocks, hit a traffic snarl and sighed. For a time she simply tapped her fingers on the wheel and studied the new animated billboard over Gromley's Theater Complex. A dozen different videos were advertised. She watched an air chase between two sky-cycles over New Los Angeles that ended with a very impressive crash and display of flames. She pondered the beautiful couple who rolled across a spring meadow wearing little but glossy skin. The latest kid-flick was next in line and offered a trio of dancing spiders garbed in top hats and tails.

She inched forward, ignoring the bad-tempered honks and shouted curses of other drivers similarly situated.

A teenage couple riding tandem on an airboard surfed through the snarled traffic in a bright flash of color. The driver beside her resigned herself to a long wait by turning up her music system to an ear-splitting pitch and singing along in a loud, off-key voice.

Overhead an airbus blatted. There was something smug in the sound, Eve thought. Yeah, yeah, she mused, scowling up at it, if more people took advantage of public transpo, we wouldn't be in this fix.

Bored, Eve pulled out her communicator and tagged Peabody.

"You might as well call it a night," Eve told her. "I'm in a vehicle jam here and my ETA is anyone's guess."

"There's this rumor about pizza."

"Okay, enjoy then, but if you're still there when I get in, you're going to have to give me a full report on the day's work."

"For pizza, Lieutenant, I would face much worse."

She watched it happen. It was perfectly choreographed for disaster. Three cars ahead of her, two Rapid Cabs shot into vertical lift at the same time. Their fenders brushed, bumped. The cabs shimmied. Even as Eve was shaking her head over idiocy, the cabs lost their lift and hit the street with resounding thuds.

"Well, damn."

"Problem, Dallas? Thought I heard a crash."

"Yeah, a couple of brain dead cabbies. Oh yeah, that's going to help. Now they're out of their rides and screaming at each other. This'll get traffic moving, all right."

Her eyes narrowed as she saw one of the cabbies reach through his window and pull out a metal bat. "That tears it. Peabody, call for a couple of black-and-white floaters, assault with deadly in progress, Tenth Avenue between Twenty-fifth and -sixth. Tell them to make it fast before we have a riot. Now I'm going to go give these assholes a lesson in driving courtesy."

"Dallas, maybe you ought to wait for backup. I'll have – "

"Forget it. I'm sick of idiots." She slammed her door, took three long-legged strides. And the world erupted.

She felt the hot fist of air punch her in the back, scoop her up like a doll, and fling her forward. Her eardrums sang with the force of the explosion as she flew. Something sharp, twisted, and flaming shot past her head. Someone screamed. She didn't think it was herself, as she couldn't seem to draw in air to breathe.

She bounced headfirst off the hood of a car, dimly saw the shocked, white face of its driver gaping at her, then hit the street hard enough to scrape flesh and rattle bones.

Something's burning, something's burning, she thought, but couldn't quite place it. Flesh, leather, fuel. Oh God. With wobbly effort, she pushed with her hands, managed to lift her head.

Behind her, people abandoned their cars like rats running from doomed ships. Someone stepped on her, but she barely felt it. Overhead, the traffic copters zoomed in to shine security beams and blast out cautions.

But eyes were dazzled by the fierce light, the shooting flames coming from her vehicle.

She wheezed in a breath, let it out. "Son of a bitch." And passed out cold.