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“A good choice of symbols,” Roarke commented. “Attractive, intelligent, strong without being overbearing.”

“So you say,” Eve sneered.

“Symbolically speaking. By using her as spokesman rather than the mayor, it generates the impression this is not a crisis but a problem. By pushing you forward, it adds the element of competence and doggedness. The city is in good hands, caring hands. Female hands that, traditionally, tend and nurture as well as protect.”

“What a load of horseshit.”

“You know, it’s not.” Baxter spoke up. “Pain in the ass for you, Dallas, no question, but it’s a good angle. You both look good on-screen. Nice contrast. Like, I dunno, the warrior and the goddess. Then you’ve got Whitney, Tibble looking all sober and stern, a few comments from the mayor at his dignified best stating his absolute confidence in the NYPSD and the system, and people feel calm and don’t riot in the streets and fuck up traffic.”

“Maybe you missed your calling, Baxter. You should be in PR.”

“And give up this cushy job and the great salary?”

She laughed. “Horseshit or not, that’s the current game plan. And unless we get a substantial break soon, I’m going to end up on the morning shows hyping justice like it was the latest entertainment vid. If that happens, I’ll make all of you suffer beyond imagining.”

She turned for the door. “Peabody, with me.”

She waited until they were back in her office. “Don’t hover over McNab like that.”

“Sir?”

“You hover over him, you’re going to make him think you’re worried.”

“I am worried. The twenty-four—”

“Worry all you want, dump on me if you need to. But don’t let him see it. He’s starting to fray, and he’s trying hard not to show it. You try just as hard not to show it. If you need to vent, go out there on the kitchen terrace. Scream your lungs out.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I kick inanimate objects. Sometimes I jump Roarke and have jungle sex. The last,” she said after a beat, “is not an option for you.”

“But I think it would really make me feel better, and be a more productive member of the investigative team.”

“Good, humor is good. Get me coffee.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks. It’s going to be a minute on the coffee. I think I’ll try the terrace thing.”

Eve sat, began to thread her way through Mary Ellen George’s life.

The sealed files remained sealed. She’d gotten her warrant, and Child Services had immediately trumped it with a temporary restraining order. The TRO would hold her off until lawyers fought it out in court.

Days, she thought. Days lost. Unless she took another route.

Before she did, she’d try a more legitimate angle. For the third time that day, she put in a call to Detective Sergeant Thomas Dwier.

This time she tagged him instead of his voice mail.

“Sergeant, Lieutenant Dallas. I’ve been trying to tag you.”

“I’m in court.” He had a tough, lived-in face. “We’re on a fifteen. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I’m primary on the Purity homicides. You hear about that?”

“Who hasn’t? You tapping me because of that asshole Fitzhugh?”

“I’m digging for what I can find. I’d like to pick your brain over it. You also were part of the team on Mary Ellen George.”

“Yeah, thought we had her solid, but she slithered. What’s the connection?”

“She’s dead.”

“So, the wheel goes round and round. Don’t know what I can tell you about either one of them that’s not in the files.”

“Why don’t I buy you a beer after court? I’m jammed up, Dwier. I could use some help.”

“Sure, what the hell. You know O’Malley’s off of Eighth on Twenty-third?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Should be done here in an hour.”

“I’ll meet you at O’Malley’s.” She glanced at the time. “Seventeen hundred.”

“Should work. They’re calling us back. Later.”

She turned from the ’link as Peabody set a mug of coffee on the desk. “Better?”

“Yeah, I guess. Throat’s kinda sore. Your fridgie and your AutoChef are both out of Pepsi.”

“Jamie must drink it by the truckload. Tell Summerset, then—”

She broke off when a small tornado burst into her office.

Mavis Freestone moved fast. The two-inch platforms on