Vengeance in Death

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The sun was breaking over the East River as they shot southward through the still-slumbering uptown. Clouds scooted over the light, moving lazily, making it the thick color of powder.

Roarke chose to keep the car on manual, and avoided Broadway with its never-ending party and unfriendly traffic. He could feel Eve's frustration riding with them like a third passenger crowding the car.

"It isn't possible to outguess a madman."

"He's got a pattern, but it's coming apart. I can't get the threads of it." Think, think, think, she ordered herself as they bulleted through the change-of-shift traffic in midtown. "Do you know who owns the Mermaid Club?"

"Not personally. It was something I picked up years ago. One of my first downtown properties. Actually I won it in a dice game, kept it a couple of years, then sold it off at a tidy profit." Spotting a loaded commuter tram stalled across Seventh, he whipped west and headed crosstown.

"Has to be the owner or someone who works there." Eve pulled out her personal palm computer. Her teeth snapped together when Roarke hit one of the potholes neglected by the city's road and infrastructure teams. "Silas Tikinika? Ring a bell?''

"No."

"Then he's probably sleeping peacefully tonight. I'll run employees."

"We're nearly there," Roarke told her. "We'll know soon enough."

The animated mermaid, naked but for her glossy green tail, was dark and still over the safety grilled window. He pulled up at the all but empty curb. It was rare for people in this ugly little section of town to have personal transportation. Without the auto-shield and security feature on Roarke's car, it wouldn't be waiting when he came out.

He caught a glimpse of a couple of street ghosts hovering in a doorway two buildings down. They drifted out in the murky dawn, then faded back at the scream of approaching sirens.

"I'm not waiting for the backup," she told Roarke, pulling both her weapon and her master code. Then she reached down, tugged a stunner from her boot. "Take my clinch piece – and make sure it disappears when the uniforms get here." Her eyes held his for one quick moment. "You take the left."

Wild light and wilder music met them when they went through the door. Eve swung right, sweeping. Then sprinted forward with a shout of warning for the man clinging to the ladder on the side of the show tank.

"Stop! Keep your hands where I can see them."

"I've got to get him out." Summerset's knuckles scraped metal as he slid down a rung. "He's drowning."

"Get the hell out of my way." She all but dragged him off the ladder and threw him at Roarke. "Find the drain switch, for God's sake. Hurry." Then she was scrambling up, and diving in.

Strings of blood swam in the water like exotic fish. The man who was bolted to the floor of the tank was blue around the lips, his single eye open and staring. She could see both his fingers and ankles were raw from fighting the shackles. She grabbed his battered face, fit her mouth over his, and gave him her breath.

Lungs burning, she pushed off, fought her way to the surface, and sucked in more air. Without wasting the breath on words, she dived again. Her gaze flicked briefly to the face of the Madonna, its carved eyes watching tortured death with absolute serenity.

Eve shuddered once, then fought for life.

On her third trip up, she thought the surface was closer, and swimming down, she turned her head and got a watery view of Roarke coming up the ladder.

He'd taken time to pull off his shoes and jacket. When he reached the floor of the tank, he yanked her arm, jerked a thumb for her to go up. So they worked in tandem, one drawing in air, the other giving it while the water swirled down.

When she could stand, her head above water, she coughed violently. "Summerset," she managed.

"He won't go anywhere. For God's sake, Eve."

"I haven't got time to argue about it. Can you pick the locks on the restraints?"

Dripping, still gasping for air, he stared at her. Then he dug in his pocket for his penknife. "Here come your men."

"I'll deal with them. See what you can do down there."

She flipped her wet hair out of her eyes as four uniforms charged inside the club. "Dallas," she shouted. "Lieutenant Eve. Get some med-techs here, fast. Resuscitation equipment. Drowning victim. I don't know how long he was under, but there's no pulse. And someone turn that goddamn music off. Glove up. I want this scene preserved as much as possible."

The water was down to her knees now, and the air was making her shiver in her wet clothes. Her muscles ached from supporting the dead weight of the victim. She saw Roarke finesse the lock on the first shackle and shifted to adjust.

The minute the second ankle was free, she laid the body down in the few remaining inches of water and, straddling it, began pumping his chest.

"I want a CPR kit in here, some blankets." The last word echoed as the music shut abruptly off. Now she could hear her ears ringing. "Come on, come on, come back," she panted, then leaned forward and forced air into his mouth.

"Let me do it." Roarke knelt beside her. "You've got a crime scene to secure."

"The MTs." She continued to count the chest pumps in her head. "They'll be here any minute. You can't stop until they get here."

"I won't stop."

At her nod, he placed his hands over hers, picked up her rhythm. "Who is he, Roarke?"

"I don't know." He glanced up briefly as Eve got to her feet. "I just don't know."

It was a great deal harder climbing out of the tank than it had been getting in, Eve realized. She was winded by the time she reached the lip. She took a moment to catch her breath, to draw it into lungs that felt seared and scraped. Then she swung her leg over and started down.

Peabody was waiting at the bottom. "The MTs were right behind me, Dallas."

"He's pretty far gone. Don't know if they can bring him back." She looked through the glass, watched Roarke working steadily. "Take the uniforms. Form two teams and do a search. You won't find him, but look anyway. Secure all doors. Engage recorders."

Peabody looked over Eve's shoulder to where Summerset stood, hands at his sides, watching Roarke from the far end of the tank. "What are you going to do?"

"My job. You do yours. I want this scene secured and a sweep team ordered. Do you have a field kit with you?''

"I don't have a detective kit, just my street and scene bag."

"I'll use that." She took the bag Peabody offered. "Get started," she ordered, then signaled the emergency medical team that rushed in. "Inside the tank. Drowning victim, no pulse. CPR in progress for approximately ten minutes."

She turned away, knowing there was nothing more she could do there. Water squelched in her boots, dripped from her hair and face as she walked over to Summerset. Because her leather jacket weighed on her like a stone, she stripped it off and slammed it on the table.

"Goddamn it, Summerset, you're under arrest. Suspicion of attempted murder. You have the right to – ''

"He was alive when I got here. I'm almost sure he was alive." His voice sounded thin and thoughtful. Eve recognized the symptoms of shock in it, and in his glassy eyes. "I thought I saw him move."

"You'd be smart to wait until I've told you your rights and obligations before you make any statement." She lowered her voice. "You'd be real smart to say nothing, not a fucking thing, until Roarke rounds you up his fancy lawyers. Now be smart and shut up."

But he refused the lawyers. When Eve walked into the interview room where he was being guarded by a uniform, Summerset sat stiffly and continued to stare straight ahead. "I won't need you," she told the guard. She came around the table and sat when the guard left the room. She'd taken time to change into dry clothes, warm up her system with coffee; and she had checked with the medical team that had brought the man identified as Patrick Murray back to life, and the doctors who were fighting to keep him that way.

"It's still attempted murder," she said conversationally. "They brought Murray back from the dead, but he's in a coma, and if he makes it he may be brain damaged."

"Murray?"

"Patrick Murray, another Dublin boy."

"I don't remember a Patrick Murray." His bony fingers moved through his disordered hair. His eyes looked blindly around the room. "I would – I would like some water."

"Sure, fine." She rose to fill a pitcher. "Why aren't you letting Roarke set up the lawyers?"

"This isn't his doing. And I have nothing to hide."

"You're an idiot." She slammed the pitcher in front of him. "You don't know how bad it can be once I turn the recorder on and start on you. You were at the scene of an attempted murder, caught by the primary investigator climbing out – "

"In," he snapped. Her tone had torn away the mists that kept closing in on his mind. "I was going into the tank."

"You're going to have to prove that. I'm the first one you're going to have to convince." She raked both hands through her hair in a gesture of fatigue and frustration that made Summerset frown. Her eyes, he noted, were reddened from the water, and deeply shadowed.

"I can't hold back with you this time," she warned him.

"I expect nothing from you."

"Good. Then we start even. Engage recorder. Interview with subject Summerset, Lawrence Charles, in the matter of the attempted murder of Patrick Murray on this date. Interview conducted by primary, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Commence oh eight fifteen. Subject has been Mirandized and has waived counsel and representation at this time. Is that correct?''

"That is correct."

"What were you doing in the Mermaid Club at six-thirty in the morning?"

"I received a transmission at about six-fifteen. The caller didn't identify himself. He told me to go there, immediately and alone."

"And you always go to sex clubs when some anonymous guy calls you up at dawn and tells you to?"

Summerset sent her a withering look, which cheered her a bit. He wasn't down yet, she decided.

"I was told that a friend of mine was being held there, and that she would be harmed if I didn't obey instructions."

"What friend?"

He poured the water now, drank one small sip. "Audrey Morrell."

"Yeah, she was your alibi for Brennen's killing. That didn't pan out too well for you. Sure you want to use her again?''

"There's no need for sarcasm, Lieutenant. The transmission came in. It will be on the log."

"And we'll check that. So this anonymous caller tells you to get over to the Mermaid Club – you knew where it was?"

"No, I didn't. I am not in the habit of patronizing such establishments," he said so primly she had to stifle a snort. "He provided the address."

"Damn considerate of him. He tells you to get there or your girlfriend'll be in dire straights."

"He said – he indicated that he would do to her what had been done to Marlena."

A jolt of pity, of understanding, of great regret thudded through her. But she couldn't offer it. "Okay, you've got a cop in the house, but you don't bother to tell this cop of a possible abduction and/or assault."

His eyes were dark and cold on hers, but she saw the fear riding just behind the pride. "I am not in the habit of depending on the police department."

"If your story's clean, you wouldn't be sitting here if you had." Their eyes held as she leaned forward. "You're aware that there have been three murders and that you were under suspicion for those three murders. Though the evidence is circumstantial, and your testing results were negative, you weren't sitting on a garden bench there."

She wanted to shake him for being stupid, for disliking her so intensely he hadn't asked for help even when she would have had no choice but to give it. "Now, you claim to have gotten an anonymous call and end up on the scene of an attempted murder."

"It isn't a claim, it's a fact. I couldn't risk someone else I cared for being hurt." It was as much as he could bear to give, that one reminder of his daughter. "I wouldn't risk it. When the transmission came through, I acted as I thought I had to act."

It would have been easier if she hadn't understood. She eased back again. ' "The scene and method of this attempted murder follows the same pattern as the three more successful murders."

She reached down into the bag she'd brought in and took out a small glass jar. It wasn't Patrick Murray's eye that floated in it. The surgeons had hope they could reattach it. But the simulation carried the same impact.

She watched as Summerset stared at the small, floating organ, then turned her head away.

"Do you believe in an eye for an eye?"

"I thought I did." His voice trembled, then he steadied it. "I don't know what I believe."

Saying nothing, she reached down again and picked out the statue of the Madonna. "The Virgin. Marlena was innocent. She was pure."

"She was fourteen. Only fourteen." Tears swam in his eyes, paining them both. "I have to believe she's at peace. To survive I have to believe. Do you think I could do what's been done here, in her name?" He closed his eyes, desperate for control. "She was gentle, and unspoiled. I won't answer any more questions about her. Not to you."

She nodded and rose. But before she turned he caught the pity dark and deep in her eyes. He'd opened his mouth without any idea what he would say, when she spoke again.

"Are you aware that electronics play a primary part in said crimes, and that your incoming log is worth squat?"

Again he opened his mouth, closed it again. What kind of woman was it, he wondered, who could go from melting compassion to whiplash in less than a blink. This time he took a deeper drink. "The transmission came in, just as I've said."

Steady again, Eve came back, sat. The image of Marlena was ruthlessly blocked from her mind. "Did you attempt to contact Audrey Morrell and access her status?''

"No, I – "

"How did you travel to the Mermaid Club?"

"I took my personal vehicle and, following the instructions I was given, parked near the side entrance of the club on Fifteenth Street."

"How did you get in?"

"The side door was unlocked."

"What happened then?"

"I called out. No one answered, but the music was very loud. All the lights were on. I went into the lounge area. I saw him right away, in the tank. He – I think he was moving. I thought I saw his lips move. His eye – his eye was gone and his face was battered."

He began to lose color as he spoke, as the image played back in his head. "Water was still going into the tank. I didn't know how to shut it off. I started up the ladder, thinking I could pull him out. Then you came in."

"How were you going to pull him out when he was cuffed to the tank floor?"

"I didn't see that. I didn't see. I only saw his face."

"You knew Patrick Murray in Dublin?"

"I knew a number of people. I don't remember a Patrick Murray."

"Okay, let's try this again."

She worked him for two hours, and worked him hard. His story never shifted by an inch. When she stepped out of Interview, she signaled to Peabody. "Check and see if my new vehicle's come through and what slot I'll find it in. Let me know, then meet me there in five minutes."

"Yes, sir. He held up," she commented. "If I got hammered that hard in Interview, I'd probably confess just to get some peace."

He'd held up, she thought, but he'd looked ten years older when she'd finished with him. Old and ill and fragile. Her stomach rolled with guilt. "The only thing he did this morning was win a stupidity prize," Eve muttered as she marched down the corridor.

She found Roarke, as she'd expected, waiting in her office. "I'm getting you ten minutes with him. Talk him into letting you lawyer him. I don't care how you do it."

"What happened? What was he doing there?"

"I don't have time. He'll tell you. I've got some legwork, shouldn't take more than an hour. Then I'm going home, with Peabody. We have to do a search. Technically, I don't need a warrant to sweep his quarters as it's on your property. But you could make it sticky."

"I've no intention of making this sticky. I want this put away as much as you do."

"Then do us all a favor – stay away from the house, and see that he stays away once your lawyers spring bail, until after three this afternoon."

"All right. Do you have an ID on the victim?"

"He's alive, barely, and his name is Patrick Murray. He was the floor scraper at the club. I've got to contact his wife."

"Pat Murray. Jesus, I didn't recognize him."

"But you knew him."

"More professionally than personally. He liked to gamble, I provided games." His recollection was vague and misty. "He sold me a tip on where I could find Rory McNee. He must have told someone about it. I certainly didn't, and we weren't friends. The fact is he often ran numbers and minor errands for O'Malley and the others. I never thought of him." He lifted his hand, let it fall. "The tip was a dead end, so I never thought of him."

"Someone did. Doesn't matter if the tip was bogus or not. He sold it to you and that makes him a traitor. Which makes him a target." Her communicator beeped. "Dallas."

"Got your vehicle, Lieutenant, garage section D, level three, slot 101."

"On my way. I've got to go," she said to Roarke. "Call the lawyers."

He managed to smile a little. "I did that an hour ago. They should be convincing a judge to grant bail about now."

Because she was in a hurry, Eve took the motor glide to section D – or as far as section C, where it broke down. She jumped off without bothering to swear and covered the next level at a fast clip. She located slot 101 and found Peabody gawking at a slick new Sunspot with an angled-down hood, converto-roof, and deflector fins, front and rear.

"I thought you said 101."

"I did."

"Where's my replacement vehicle?"

"This is it." Peabody turned with wide eyes. "Right here. This one."

Eve only snorted. "Nobody in Homicide gets one of these muscle jobs – not even the captains."

"Serial plates match. I checked the key code." She held out a thin metal plate that could be used by the operator if the code was forgotten. "It works. I started to call in to Vehicular Requisitions, then figured why be stupid."

"Well." Eve pursed her lips, whistled lightly. The color might have been an unfortunate pea green, but everything else about it was prime. "Wow. Somebody screwed up, but we might as well enjoy it while we can. Get in."

"You don't have to twist my arm." Peabody scooted under the upward-opening door and wiggled down until her butt settled comfortably. "Nice seats. You can program initial for your voiceprint."

"We'll play with it later." Eve engaged the ignition manually and lifted a brow in approval at the big cat purr of the engine. "Not one hiss or hiccup. This could be the beginning of a fine new partnership. I hope the security shield and jacking deflectors are operational."

"Any particular reason?"

"Yeah." Eve backed up, swung around, and headed down the levels. "We're going back to the Mermaid Club to search out a couple of street ghosts I spotted this morning. Car like this – cop plates or not – someone's going to try to boost it."

"It comes with full shields, deflectors, and a thievery deterrent – graduating electrical shocks."

"That ought to work," Eve mused. When she reached for her car 'link, Peabody shook her head.

"That's a hands-free. You just tap the second button down on your wheel stem to engage.

"I love technology." Eve did so and watched the 'link screen go to holding blue. "Audrey Morrell, Luxury Towers, New York City. Search number and contact."

Searching… Number is on public list. Contacting…

An efficient two beeps later, Audrey's face came on screen. There was a smear of bright yellow paint on her right cheek and a distracted look in her eyes. "Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Morrell."

"Oh, yes, Lieutenant." Audrey lifted a hand dotted with cerulean blue to her hair. "What can I do for you?''

"Could you tell me where you were between five and seven a.m. this morning?"

"Here, here in my apartment. I didn't get up until just after seven o'clock. I've been in all morning working. Why?"

"Just routine. I'd like to set up a follow-up interview with you. Tomorrow morning, at your residence if that's convenient."

"Well, I, yes, I suppose so. At nine if it won't take more than an hour. I have a private lesson here at ten-thirty."

"Nine's fine. Thank you. Transmission concluded." Eve pulled up at the rear of a line of traffic waiting for the light. "Whoever called Summerset this morning had to know that he's got a thing for Artsy Audrey – as tough as it is to imagine that dried-up stick having a thing for anyone."

"I've been giving it some thought."

"And?"

"It can't be one person acting alone – not if we proceed with the belief that Summerset is innocent. It's not just the murders, but the setup. The killer has to know Summerset's routine, and he has to be certain he doesn't deviate from it. Someone's got to be staking him out, following him, while the killer acts. And the killer, according to profile, requires praise, attention, and rewards. Someone has to be giving them to him."

"That's good, Peabody."

Peabody said nothing for a moment, then sighed. "But you already knew all that."

"It doesn't matter. It's good. Half of detective work is following logic, and you followed it."

"What's the other half?"

"Following illogic." She pulled up in front of the Mermaid Club, noted the police seal on the door was blinking red and the security grilles on the windows were still down and locked.

"Street ghosts don't walk much in daylight," Peabody commented.

"The car will lure them out." Eve stepped onto the street, waited until Peabody stood on the sidewalk. "Engage all tampering deflectors and security measures."

The locks had barely slammed home when she caught the slight movement in the doorway just across from her. "I've got fifty credits for information," she said without bothering to raise her voice. Street ghosts heard everything they wanted to hear. "If I get it, my aide and I won't have to follow through on a tip we got that there are illegal substances in the building."

"It's twenty credits just to ask. Thirty more for an answer."

"Fair enough." She dug in her pocket, pulled a single twenty chip out.

The figure that came toward her was gray. Skin, hair, eyes all the same dust tone as the street sweeping coat he wore. His voice was whisper soft, and the fingers that plucked the credit from Eve's palm did so without touching flesh.

"Do you know Patrick Murray, the floor scraper?"

"Seen him, heard him, don't know him. Dead now though."

"No, he's not quite dead." Like you, she thought, he's in some half world. But Patrick still had a chance to come all the way back. "Did you see anybody go in the club after hours this morning?"

"Seen him." The ghost's gray lips split open over gray teeth in a horrid smile. "Heard him. Don't know him."

"What time?"

"There is no time. Just day, just night. One came when it was more night than day. One came when it was more day than night."

"Two?" Her eyes sharpened. "You saw two different people go in, at two different times."

"First one rang in, second didn't."

"What did the first one look like?"

"One head, two arms, two legs. Everyone looks the same to me. Nice coat. Thick and black."

"Was he still here when the second man came?"

"They passed like ghosts." He smiled again. "One goes out, the other goes in. Then you came."

"You got your coffin up there?'' She jerked a thumb at the building.

"I should be in it now. It's too day out here."

"You keep it there." She passed him another thirty credits. "If I need you and come back, there'll be another fifty for you."

"Easy money," he said and faded back.

"Get me a name on him, Peabody. Run the building for tenants."

"Yes, sir." She climbed back in the car. "Two men. That backs Summerset's story."

"Our killer doesn't know enough about ghosts to have covered himself there. All he had to do was pass over money and promise more."

"Those types give me the creeps." Peabody punched in the request, waited for her ppc to search and find. "You'd think they could walk through walls, the way they look."

"You fix on Tranquility for a few years, you'd look the same. File all the names in case our ghost decided to load up his coffin and find another graveyard. Then contact McNab, have him meet us at the house."

"McNab?"

"Don't be pissy," Eve ordered, engaging wipers as a thin, wet snow began to fall. "I need Summerset's 'link logs checked." She engaged the car 'link again and contacted the hospital for an update on Murray.

"He could come out of it," she said as she drove through the gates of her home. "There's more brain wave activity, and he responded to VR stimulus. His wife's with him."

She barely stopped the car when she noted another vehicle scooting down the drive behind her. Her initial annoyance at the interruption faded when she recognized the car.

"Feeney."

He got out of his car, his skin pink from the Mexican sun, his clothes rumpled, his wiry red hair topped by an incredibly silly straw hat.

"Hey, kid." He dragged a box out of the car and, nearly staggering under its weight, carried it toward her. "Just got back, and the wife wanted me to bring you over a little thank-you for lending us the place. Some place."

He rolled his eyes. "Peabody, you gotta tag Dallas for a couple weeks there. It's a frigging Mex palace right on a damn cliff. You can be lying in bed, reach out the window and pluck a mango right off the tree. Got a pool the size of a lake and a droid to do everything but zip your fly in the morning. You going to let me in? This thing weighs fifty pounds if it weighs an ounce."

"Sure. I didn't think you were coming back till…" She trailed off when she reached the door and realized today was the day he was due back. "I lost track."

He dumped the box on a table in the foyer, rolled his shoulders. "So, what's new?"

"Nothing much. I got three homicides and an attempted, connected. Mutilations. Guy contacted me personally, set it up as a game with religious overtones. Last victim's in a coma, but will probably pull through. Roarke knew all the victims back in Dublin and Summerset just bounced to the top of the suspect list."

Feeney shook his head. "Never changes. I tell you I never turned on the screen for two weeks for anything but sports and – '' He stopped and his droopy eyes went wide. "Summerset?"

"I'll fill you in while we do the search. McNab's on his way over."

"McNab." Feeney danced after her, ditching his straw hat and his vacation mood as he went. "EDD's working with you on this?"

"Our guy's an electronics and communications whiz. He's got a high-end jammer among his toys. McNab's been cutting through the layers, and he managed to nail the source. But we haven't found his hole."

"McNab. The boy's good. I've been bringing him along."

"You can talk techno-jazz when he gets here. Right now I've got a straight search – and a 'link log to verify." She paused at the entrance to Summerset's quarters. "You want in, or do you want to go back and find your party hat?"

"I'll just call the wife and tell her I won't be home for supper."

Eve grinned. "I missed you, Feeney. Damned if I didn't."

He grinned wickedly. "The wife took six hours of video. She wants you and Roarke to come over for dinner next week, and the show." Wiggling his brows, he turned to Peabody. "You come too."

"Oh, well, Captain, I wouldn't want to horn in on – "

"Stow it, Peabody. If I have to suffer, you have to suffer too. That's chain of command."

"Another incentive," Peabody decided, "for increasing my rank. Thank you, Lieutenant."

"No problem. Recorder on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Feeney, Captain Ryan; Peabody, Officer Delia entering quarters of Summerset, Lawrence Charles, standard search for evidence."

She'd never been inside Summerset's private domain. It was just one more surprise. Where she'd expected the stark and utilitarian, straight edges and minimal style, was a lovely living area with soft, blending tones of blue and green, pretty trinkets on tables of honey-hued wood, generous, giving cushions, and an air of welcome.

"Who'd have figured it?" Eve shook her head. "You look at this and picture a guy who enjoys life, even has friends. Feeney, take the communications center, will you. Peabody – That'll be McNab," she said when the buzz sounded from the recessed house monitor on the south wall. "Clear him through, Peabody, then I want you to start in here. I'll take the bedroom."

Four rooms spread out from the living area like ribs of a fan. The first was an efficient office and control center where Feeney rubbed his hands together and dived into the equipment. Opposite that was an equally efficient kitchen that Eve ignored for now.

Two bedrooms faced each other, but one was doubling now as an artist's studio. Eve pursed her lips, studied the watercolor still life in progress on the easel. She knew it was fruit because she saw the huge bowl with overflowing grapes and glossy apples on the table under the window. On the canvas, however, the fruit was having a very bad season.

"Don't quit your day job," she murmured and turned in to his bedroom.

The bed was big, with an elaborate pewter headboard that twisted into vines and silvery leaves. The duvet was thick and spread neatly over the mattress without a wrinkle. The closet held two dozen suits, all black, all so similar in style they might have been cloned. Shoes, again black, were housed in clear protective boxes and ruthlessly polished.

That's where she started, checking pockets, searching for anything that would signal a false wall.

When she came out fifteen minutes later, she could hear Feeney and McNab happily chirping about mainframes and signal capacitors. She went through the bureau drawer by drawer and shut down any threatening shudder that she was pawing through Summerset's underwear.

She'd been at it an hour, and was just about to call Peabody in to help her flip the mattress when she looked at the single watercolor over a table decked with hothouse roses.

Odd, she thought, all the other paintings – and the man had an art house supply of them – were in groupings on the walls. This one stood alone. It was a good piece of work, she supposed, moving closer to study the soft strokes, the dreamy colors. A young boy was the centerpiece, his face angelic and wreathed with smiles, his arms loaded with flowers. Wild flowers that spilled over and onto the ground.

Why should the kid in the painting look familiar? she wondered. Something about the eyes. She moved closer yet, peering into that softly painted face. Who the hell are you? she asked silently. And what are you doing on Summerset's wall?

It couldn't be Summerset's work, not after the canvas she'd seen in his studio. This artist had talent and style. And knew the child. Eve was almost certain of that.

For a better look, she lifted it from the wall and carried it to the window. Down in the corner she could see a sweep of writing. Audrey.

The girlfriend, she mused. She supposed that's why he'd hung it separately, underplanting it with fresh roses. Christ, the man was actually love struck.

She nearly re-hung the painting, then laid it on the bed instead. Something about the boy, she thought again, and her heart picked up in pace. Where have I seen him? Why would I have seen him? The eyes. Damn it.

Frustrated, she turned the painting over and began to pry it from its gilded frame.

"Find something, Dallas?" Peabody asked from the doorway.

"No – I don't know. Something about this painting. This kid. Audrey. I want to see if there's a title – a name on the back of the canvas. Hell with it." Annoyed, she reached up to tear off the backing.

"Wait. I've got a penknife." Peabody hurried over. "If you just slit the backing up here, you can re-seal it. This is a nice, professional job." She slipped the tip of her knife under the thin white paper, lifted it gently. "I used to do the backings for my cousin. She could paint, but she couldn't turn a screw with a laser drill. I can fix this when – ''

"Stop." Eve clamped a hand on Peabody 's wrist when she spotted the tiny silver disc under the backing. "Get Feeney and McNab. The fucking painting's bugged."

Alone, Eve lifted the painting out of its frame and, turning it, looked down in the signature corner. Below Audrey's name, deep in the corner that had been covered by the frame, was a green shamrock.