Portrait In Death

"It was a pleasure to meet you." She took Sinead's hand in a firm grip. "A genuine pleasure. The shuttle runs both ways, if you decide to come to New York."

Roarke pressed a kiss to her temple as they walked to the field, and the waiting copter. "That was well done."

"She's a stand-up."

"That she is." He looked back toward the house, and the woman who stood in the back doorway to wave them off.

"You should get some sleep," he said to her when they were settled on the shuttle.

"Don't start poking at me, pal. You're the one who looks like he's been on a week's bender."

"Might stem from the fact that I've consumed more whiskey in the past two days than I have in the past two years, altogether. Why don't we both stretch out for a bit?"

She jiggled her foot, checked the time, did the math. "Too early to call Central and check in. I'll be back in a couple hours anyway, won't even have missed any time."

"Just missed sleep." He engaged the mechanism that turned the wide sofa into a wide bed.

"Too revved to sleep."

"Is that so?" Some of the light she loved was back in his eyes. "Well, what can we do to pass the time, help you relax? Cribbage, perhaps?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Cribbage? Is that some perverted sexual activity?"

He laughed, and grabbing her, tossed her onto the bed. "Why not?"

But he was gentle, and so was she. Tender, as she was. They watched each other as they touched. So she could see the shadows that had haunted him these last days lift away, and leave that deep and vivid blue clear again.

Love, she thought, the act of it, could chase away ghosts for a while, tuck the dead away. Here was life, with him filling her, life as she surrounded the hard length of him, and their fingers linked, their mouths meeting.

Life, he thought, while she rose to him so he could only sink into her. Their life.

She was definitely relaxed, and not particularly sleepy when they arrived at the transport dock in New York. Then again, she figured, if a woman wasn't relaxed after an energetic session of cribbage with Roarke, something was wrong with her.

She let him take the wheel of the city vehicle she'd left in his personal parking slot for the drive home so she could use her energies to alert Central she was back, and on duty.

"No point in mentioning you could have taken a couple of hours personal time before diving back in."

"I've had more than my quota of personal time. I'm fine." She looked over at him. "We're fine now."

He closed a hand over hers as he maneuvered through the early morning traffic. "We are, yes. My head's clearer than it's been in days. I guess I'm a bit anxious to get back to things myself."

"Good deal. So before we both get back to things, is there anything else you should tell me?"

He thought of Grogin, and how close he'd come to crossing a line. Eve's line. "No. Oh wait, there is one thing. It turns out I'm a year younger than I thought I was."

"No kidding. Huh. Does it feel weird?"

"A bit, actually."

"I guess you'll get used to it." She snuck a look at the time. "Listen, I'll dump you home, then head straight downtown to… Damn." Her communicator signaled.

DISPATCH, DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE.

"Dallas, acknowledged."

REPORT EAST SIDE HEALTH CENTER, SECOND LEVEL UNDERGROUND PARKING FACILITY. HOMICIDE VERIFIED BY FEENEY, CAPTAIN RYAN, ON SCENE.

"On my way. Dallas out. Goddamn it, goddamn it. I thought I had more time. I have to dump you now, Roarke."

"I'll take you. Let me do this," he said before she could object. "Let me do whatever I can."

Chapter 19

Sirens were screaming, and the lights from the emergency vehicle whirled as it sped by. Someone was in trouble.

But Alicia Dilbert had no more need for sirens or whirling lights; her trouble was over.

The scene was already cordoned off, with cops doing their busy work. The morning was begi

On the corner, an enterprising glide-cart operator was set up and doing a brisk business selling coffee and fried egg sandwiches to cops and health workers-both of whom should have known better.

Eve smelled the stink of fake eggs sizzling on the grill, the body odor from men who'd been at work too long, and the medicinal scent of hospital that clung to the crowded air.

If the dog days of August didn't take a breather soon, the city was going to parboil in its own sweat.

She sealed up, and crouched with Feeney by the body.

"Got word you were back, so I held off having her bagged." He nodded toward Roarke who stood at the edge of the barricade. "Quick trip."

"Yeah. We're fine. He's fine. Shit, Feeney.Shit. I should've been here."

"Wouldn't have made a damn, and you know it. He didn't get past us. Van hasn't been touched. Nobody approached it."

"She's still dead, so he got past us one way or another." She fixed on microgoggles and studied the neat heart wound. "He keeps things orderly, stays on pattern." With the goggles in place, she could see the thin, faint line of bruises around the wrists.

"He posed her. When Morris gets her in, he'll find other marks from the wires he uses."

"Yeah. Dallas. He went a little off pattern this time around." Though his face was cold and set, there was a little flare of fury in his eyes as he reached in his evidence bag and took out a sealed note.

"She was holding this. He had it taped to her fingers." He turned the bag to show Eve the envelope, and her name printed on it.

Eve took the evidence bag, turned the note to read.

Lieutenant Dallas. You don't understand. How could you? Your scope is limited. Mine is expanded. You see here a victim, but you're wrong. She has been given a gift, a great gift, and by a small sacrifice offers that gift to others.

You think I'm a monster, I know. There will be those who agree with you and curse my name. But there will be more, many more, who will see, and finally understand the art, and the beauty, and the power I've discovered.

What I do is not simply for myself, but for all mankind.

Her light was brilliant, and is brilliant still. I hope one day you will know it.

You see too much death. One day there will only be life. And light.

It is almost done.

"Yeah, it's almost done," she muttered. She slid the note into her bag. "My scope's limited, Feeney, but what I see here is a pretty black girl, around twenty years of age, dressed in a medical uniform. About five-five, a hundred and thirty. No defensive wounds."

She bent close again, turned the girl's right palm up. "Slight round mark, consistent with pressure syringe, on her right palm. Hi, how you doing, nice to see you again. And the bastard tranqs her with a handshake. Dressed for work, so she was coming or going. We know which?"

"Med student, doing rotation here. Off shift at ten. We got statements from some of the staff who saw her clock out."

"Mmm." She continued to study the girl. Pretty face, high, sharp cheekbones. Glossy black hair, curly and drawn tidily back with a band at the nape of her neck. A trio of studs along the lobes of each ear.

"Pretty busy around here. Big risk to scoop her up right outside a health center at ten at night. You got her home address?"

"Got that, and the rest." Though he remembered, he pulled out his e-pad. "Alicia Dilbert, twenty. Student at NYU, Medicine. Residence on East Sixth, puts her place three blocks north of here. Next of kin's a brother, Wilson Buckley."