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“Do they?” Roarke’s voice was mild as he scanned the area. “You’ll learn there’s very little always in the world, Ralph. But it’s possible they could be right this time around.”

The rooms beyond the anteroom were dark, but there was a backwash of light shining up the stairs from the lower level. Roarke started down, tucked a hand in his pocket where he’d slipped a small, illegal-for-civilian-use stunner when he’d gotten the call of a potential break-in.

He followed the glow toward the under-stage area.

He smelled home brew, the just-going-sour punch of it, and a nasty undertone he recognized as death.

“Yes, I’m afraid they’re right this time,” he murmured, then turned the corner.

“Oh, shit. Oh, man.” Ralph’s voice jumped over the words, and his eyes goggled at the figure dangling from a stout length of rope. “Is that a guy?”

“It was. If you’re going to be sick, there’s no shame in it, but find another place.”

“Huh?”

Roarke glanced back. The boy’s face was sheet white, his eyes going glassy. To keep it simple, Roarke simply pressed a hand on Ralph’s shoulder and lowered him to the floor. “Put your head down, take slow breaths. That’s the way, son. You’ll do fine.”

Turning from the boy, Roarke walked to the hanged man. “Poor, stupid bastard,” he thought aloud, and took out his palm ’link to call his wife.

“Dallas. What? Roarke, I can’t talk to you now. I’m up to my neck here.”

“Speaking of necks. I’m looking at one now that’s been considerably stretched. You’ll need to come to the theater, Lieutenant, lower level. I’ve found another body for you.”

Death demanded routine, even if the primary investigator’s husband discovered the body.

“Can you identify him?” she asked Roarke, and signaled for Peabody to record the scene.

“Quim. Linus Quim. I checked the employment records after I called you. Head stagehand. He was fifty-six. Divorced, no children. He lived on Seventh—alone, according to his file.”

“Did you know him personally?”

“No.”

“Okay, stand by. Peabody, get me a ladder. I don’t want to use this one until we’ve done a full sweep. Who’s the kid?” she asked Roarke.

“Ralph Biden. One of the janitorial team. He was going to work solo today, saw the stage door was unlocked, and called it in.”

“Give me times,” Eve demanded as she studied the angle of the fallen ladder, the pattern of shattered glass from the broken brew bottle.

After one long stare, Roarke took out his log. “He contacted maintenance control at eleven twenty-three. I was alerted six minutes later and arrived on-scene at noon, precisely. Is that exact enough to satisfy, Lieutenant?”

She knew the tone and couldn’t help it if he decided to be annoyed. Still, she scowled at his back and he walked away to take a small stepladder from Peabody.

“Did you or the kid touch anything?”

“I know the routine.” Roarke set the ladder under the body. “Nearly as well as you by now.”

She merely grunted, shouldered her field kit, and started up the ladder.

Hanging is an unpleasant death, and the shell left behind reflects it. It bulges the eyes, purples the face. He hadn’t weighed more than one-twenty, Eve thought. Not enough, not nearly enough for the weight to drop down fast and heavy and mercifully snap his neck.

Instead, he’d choked to death, slowly enough to be aware, to fight, to regret.

With hands coated with Seal-It, she tugged the single sheet of cheap recycled paper out of his belt. After a quick scan, she handed the paper down. “Bag it, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir. Self-termination?”

“Cops who jump to conclusions trip over same and fall on their asses. Call for a Crime Scene team, alert the ME we have an unattended death.”

Chastised, Peabody pulled out her communicator.

Eve logged time of death for the recorder and examined the very precise hangman’s knot. “Why self-termination, Officer Peabody?”

“Ah . . . subject is found hanged to death, a traditional method of self-termination, in his place of employment. There is a signed suicide note, a broken bottle of home brew with a single glass. There