Naked In Death

"Looks like you maintained fine to me, Prosky." Out of the crime bag she'd brought up with her, she took out the protective spray, used it. "Make the calls to forensics and the ME. The room needs to be swept, and she'll need to be bagged and tagged."

"Yes, sir. Should I remain on post?"

"Until the first team gets here. Then you can report in." She finished coating her boots, glanced up at him. "You married, Prosky?" she asked as she snapped her recorder to her shirt.

"No, sir. Sort of engaged though."

"After you report in, go find your lady. The ones who go for the liquor don't last as long as the ones who have a nice warm body to lose it in. Where do I find the landlord?" she asked and turned the knob on the unsecured door.

"He's down in one-A."

"Then tell him to stay put. I'll take his statement when I'm done here."

She stepped inside, closed the door. Eve, no longer a rookie, didn't feel her stomach revolt at the sight of the body, the torn flesh, or the blood-splattered child's toys.

But her heart ached.

Then came the anger, a sharp red spear of it when she spotted the antique weapon cradled in the arms of a teddy bear.

"She was just a kid."

It was seven A.M. Eve hadn't been home. She'd caught one hour's rough and restless sleep at her office desk between computer searches and reports. Without a Code Five attached to Lola Starr, Eve was free to access the data banks of the International Resource Center on Criminal Activity. So far, IRCCA had come up empty on matches.

Now, pale with fatigue, jittery with the false energy of false caffeine, she faced Feeney.

"She was a pro, Dallas."

"Her fucking license was barely three months old. There were dolls on her bed. There was Kool-Aid in her kitchen."

She couldn't get past it – all those silly, girlish things she'd had to paw through while the victim's pitiful body lay on the cheap, fussy pillows and dolls. Enraged, Eve slapped one of the official photos onto her desk.

"She looks like she should have been leading cheers at the high school. Instead, she's ru

"I don't figure she thought she'd end up dead," Feeney said evenly. "You want to debate the sex codes, Dallas?"

"No." Wearily, she looked down at her hard copy again. "No, but it bums me, Feeney. A kid like this."

"You know better than that, Dallas."

"Yeah, I know better." She forced herself to snap back. "Autopsy should be in this morning, but my prelim puts her dead for twenty-four hours minimum at discovery. You've identified the weapon?"

"SIG two-ten – a real Rolls-Royce of handguns, about 1980, Swiss import. Silenced. Those old timey silencers were only good for a couple, three shots. He'd have needed it because the victim's place wasn't soundproofed like DeBlass's."

"And he didn't phone it in, which tells me he didn't want her found as quickly. Had to get himself someplace else," she mused. Thoughtful, she picked up a small square of paper, officially sealed.

TWO OF SIX

"One a week," she said softly. "Jesus Christ, Feeney, he isn't giving us much time."

"I'm ru

"That's older than the murder weapon." She rubbed her hands hard over her face. "IRCCA's bound to spit our boy out from that tag."

"They're still ru

"They're not going to find squat. We got us a time traveler, Feeney."

He snorted. "Yeah, a real Jules Verne."

"We've got a twentieth-century crime," she said through her hands. "The weapons, the excessive violence, the hand-printed note left on scene. So maybe our killer is some sort of historian, or buff anyway. Somebody who wishes things were what they used to be."

"Lots of people think things would be better some other way. That's why the world's lousy with theme parks."

Thinking, she dropped her hands. "IRCCA isn't going to help us get into this guy's head. It still takes a human mind to play that game. What's he doing, Feeney? Why's he doing it?"

"He's killing LCs."

"Hookers have always been easy targets, back to Jack the Ripper, right? It's a vulnerable job, even now with all the screening, we still get clients knocking LCs around, killing them."

"Doesn't happen much," Feeney mused. "Sometimes with the S and M trade you get a party that gets too enthusiastic. Most LCs are safer than teachers."

"They still run a risk, the oldest profession with the oldest crime. But things have changed, some things. People don't kill with guns as a rule anymore. Too expensive, too hard to come by. Sex isn't the strong motivator it used to be, too cheap, too easy to come by. We have different methods of investigation, and a whole new batch of motives. When you brush all that away, the one fact is that people still terminate people. Keep digging, Feeney. I've got people to talk to."

"What you need's some sleep, kid."

"Let him sleep," Eve muttered. "Let that bastard sleep." Steeling herself, she turned to her tele-link. It was time to contact the victim's parents.

By the time Eve walked into the sumptuous foyer of Roarke's midtown office, she'd been up for more than thirty-two hours. She'd gotten through the misery of having to tell two shocked, weeping parents that their only daughter was dead. She'd stared at her monitor until the data swam in front of her eyes.

Her follow-up interview with Lola's landlord had been its own adventure. Since the man had had time to recover, he'd spent thirty minutes whining about the unpleasant publicity and the possibility of a drop-off in rentals.

So much, Eve thought, for human empathy.

Roarke Industries, New York, was very much what she'd expected. Slick, shiny, sleek, the building itself spread one hundred fifty stories into the Manhattan sky. It was an ebony lance, glossy as wet stone, ringed by transport tubes and diamond-bright skyways.

No tacky Glida-Grills on this corner, she mused. No street hawkers with their hot pocket PCs dodging security on their colorful air boards. Out-of-doors vending was off limits on this bite of Fifth. The zoning made things quieter, if a little less adventuresome.

Inside, the main lobby took up a full city block, boasting three tony restaurants, a high priced boutique, a handful of specialty shops, and a small theater that played art films.

The white floor tiles were a full yard square and gleamed like the moon. Clear glass elevators zipped busily up and down, people glides zigzagged left and right, while disembodied voices guided visitors to various points of interest or, if there was business to be conducted, the proper office.

For those who wanted to wander about on their own, there were more than a dozen moving maps.

Eve marched to a monitor and was politely offered assistance.

"Roarke," she said, a

"I'm sorry." The computer's voice was that overly ma

"Roarke," Eve repeated, holding up her badge for the computer to scan. She waited impatiently as the computer hummed, undoubtedly checking and verifying her ID, notifying the man himself.

"Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Dallas. You will be met."

"Right."

Eve turned down a corridor, passed a marble run that held a forest of snowy white impatiens.

"Lieutenant." A woman in a killer red suit and hair as white as the impatiens smiled coolly. "Come with me, please."