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“I only regret I can’t find an excuse to work right here the rest of the day. It’s a lovely campus. I’ve given some lectures here, and attended a couple of performances, but—”

“Wait. Lectures. Performances—like theater?”

“Yes, they have an excellent theater.”

“And the public can attend this stuff?”

“Of course. They—”

“Wait.” She snapped it this time, and yanked out her ’link. “Dr. Lapkoff.”

“That was very quick.”

“I need a list of every performance, concert, lecture, vid, live, holo—open to the public from April to this past Saturday. Send it to this contact.” She read off the data for her unit at Central.

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Thanks.”

“You know Peach?” Mira asked when Eve clicked off and keyed in another code.

“Huh? Well, sort of. You know her?”

“Yes. Dennis and I are patrons of the university. He taught here for years.”

“He—really? Mr. Mira taught here?”

“You know he was a professor.”

Eve thought of Dennis Mira and his comfortable, misbuttoned cardigans, his kind eyes, charmingly vague demeanor. “Yeah, I guess I never . . .”

“He still gives the occasional course and often lectures. We’re very friendly with Peach and her family.”

“Small world. Jamie.” She turned back to the ’link. “Have you gone to any of the concerts, plays, lectures, whatever at Columbia since April?”

“What?” He had the glassy-eyed look of an e-geek deep in chips. “Yeah, I went to a lecture on e-crime.”

“No, not that. Something Deena would have been into.”

“You mean like singing and dancing and shit?” He gave her a look that could only come from the young and the pained. “Why would I?”

“What I thought.” She cut him off, tagged Peabody. “I want you to go to the scene, get any playbills, posters, souvenirs, whatever the hell pertaining to any concert, performance, lecture at Columbia from the time of the meet until the day of the murder. Bring them to Central. Toss in any of the same from anywhere during the same time frame.”

“Can do. On the shoes? I thought about what you said. Upper East wasn’t his spot. Probably Deena’s area isn’t either if he didn’t want any chance of getting spotted. So I’m focusing on downtown vendors. Just a hunch.”

“Not bad. We’ll work that first. Get the stuff, head to the house. I’ll be there inside an hour.”

Eve shoved the ’link away, rose. “Thanks. Good angle. I have to book.”

“If you’re heading back to Central, maybe I could catch a ride.”

“I have to go see a guy about his dead brother.”

Mira gathered up her big pink bag. “Won’t that be interesting? May I?”

“I guess. He’s a potential. Not high on the list, but . . . Well, if he gives us any trouble, you could hit him with that bag and do some damage.”

Mira stroked a loving hand over the pastel leather. “We all have our weapons.”

When they reached her vehicle, Eve did a run on Risso Banks, obtained his home and work addresses.

“White male, age twenty-four. He’s kept his nose clean since his brother’s bust and unfortunate demise, and has gainful employment. Which fits the profile. Unmarried, no cohab on record. Also fits. And it doesn’t. His brother goes down—literally, as in four stories to splat. MacMasters is the boss, but not the primary, and it’s a shared bust with SVU. Cecil, the brother, worked the illegals and pedophile trades.”

“A charmer.”

“Apparently. He wasn’t raped, kicked around, smothered, or strangled. He took a header out a window while trying to avoid arrest. Still, not far out of the way.”

“A lot of it’s eliminating, isn’t it? Legwork, ’link work, details.” Obviously content, Mira settled back. “What an interesting vehicle. It looks so ordinary from the outside, but it has more hardware than my office inside. And it’s very comfortable—smooth, too,” she added as Eve wove through traffic.

“It moves like a turbo, and verticals like a jet-copter. Armored and blast proof. It was . . . sort of a favor-slash-present from Roarke.”

“A present so you wouldn’t have to continually knock heads with Requisitions. I heard about the last wreck.”

Before she could stop herself, Eve hunched her shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“No, but