"Where is your mother?"
She would only shake her head, close her eyes.
She didn't know. Did she have a mother? There was no memory, nothing but that sly whisper in her ear that had fear jittering through her. She learned to block it out, to block it all out. Until there was no one and nothing before the narrow bed in the hospital ward.
The social worker with her bright, practiced smile that looked false and tired around the edges. "We'll call you Eve Dallas."
That's not who I am, she thought, but she only stared. I'm nothing. I'm no one.
But they called her Eve in the group homes, in the foster homes, and she learned to be Eve. She learned to fight when pushed, to stand on the line she'd drawn, to become what she needed to become. First to survive. Then with purpose. Since middle childhood, the purpose had been to earn a badge, to make a difference, to stand for those who were no one.
One day when she stood in her stiff, formal uniform, her life had been put in her hands. Her life was a shield.
"Congratulations, Dallas, Officer Eve. The New York Police and Security Department is proud to have you."
In that moment, the thrill and the duty had burned through her like light in a strong, fierce blaze that had seared away all the shadows. And finally, she'd become someone.
I have to ask for your badge and your weapon."
She whimpered in sleep. Going to her, Roarke stroked her hair, took her hand, until she settled again.
Moving quietly, he walked to the 'link in the sitting area and called Peabody.
"Tell me what's going on here."
"She's home? She's all right?"
"She's home, and no, she's far from all right. What the hell have they done to her?"
"I'm at the Drake. Feeney's running the interviews we'd set up, but they're running late. I've only got a minute. Bowers was murdered last night. Dallas is a suspect."
"What kind of insanity is that?"
"It's bogus – everybody knows it – but it's procedure."
"Fuck procedure."
"Yeah." The image of his face on her screen, the cold, predatory look in those amazing eyes, had her fighting back a shudder. "Look, I don't have a lot of details. They're keeping the lid on Baxter – he's primary – but I got that Bowers had all this stuff about Dallas written down. Weird stuff. Sex and corruption, bribery, false reports."
He glanced back at Eve when she stirred restlessly. "Is no one considering the source?"
"The source is a dead cop." She ran a hand over her face. "We'll do whatever it takes to get her back and get her back fast. Feeney's going to do a deep-level search on Bowers," she said, lowering her voice.
"Tell him that won't be necessary. He can contact me. I already have that data."
"But how – "
"Tell him to contact me, Peabody. What's Baxter's full name and rank?"
"Baxter? Detective, David. He won't talk to you, Roarke. He can't."
"I'm not interested in talking to him. Where's McNab?"
"He's back at Central, running data."
"I'll be in touch."
"Roarke wait. Tell Dallas… tell her whatever you think she needs to hear."
"She'll need you, Peabody." He broke transmission.
He left Eve sleeping. Information was power, he thought. He intended for her to have all the power he could gather.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Detective…"
"Captain," Feeney said, sizing up the slickly groomed man in the Italian suit. "Captain Feeney, filling in temporarily for Lieutenant Dallas as primary. I'll be conducting the interview."
"Oh." Waverly's expression showed mild puzzlement. "I hope the lieutenant isn't unwell."
"Dallas knows how to take care of herself. Peabody, on record."
"On record, sir."
"So official." After a slight shrug, Waverly smiled and sat behind his massive oak desk.
"That's right." Feeney read off the revised Miranda, cocked a brow. "You get that?"
"Of course. I understand my rights and obligations. I didn't think I required a lawyer for this procedure. I'm more than willing to cooperate with the police."
"Then tell me your whereabouts on the following dates and times." Referring to his notebook, Feeney read off the dates of the three murders in New York.
"I'll need to check my calendar to be sure." Waverly swiveled a sleek black box, laid his palm on top to activate it, then requested his schedule for the times in question.
Off duty and clear during first period. Off duty and clear during second period. On call and at Drake Center monitoring patient Clifford during third period.
"Relay personal schedule," Waverly requested.
No engagements scheduled during first period. Engagement with Larin Stevens, booked for overnight during second period. No engagements scheduled during third period.
"Larin, yes." He smiled again, with a twinkle. "We went to the theater, had a late supper at my home. We also shared breakfast, if you understand my meaning, Captain."
"That's Stevens," Feeney said briskly as he entered the name in his book. "You got an address?"
All warmth fled. "My assistant will provide you with it. I'd like the police connection to my personal friends kept to a minimum. It's very awkward."
"Pretty awkward for the dead, too, Doctor. We'll check out your friend and your patient. Even if they clear you for two of the periods, we've still got one more."
"A man's entitled to spend the night alone in his own bed occasionally, Captain."
"Sure is." Feeney leaned back. "So, you pop hearts and lungs out of people."
"In a manner of speaking." The smile was back, digging charming creases into his cheeks. "The Drake has some of the finest organ transplant and research facilities in the world."
"What about your connections with the Canal Street Clinic?"
Waverly raised a brow. "I don't believe I know that facility."
"It's a free clinic downtown."
"I'm not associated with any free clinics. I paid my dues there during my early years. You'll find most doctors who work or volunteer at such places are very young, very energetic, and very idealistic."
"So you stopped working on the poor. Not worth it?"
Unoffended, he folded his hands on the desk. Peeking out from under his cuff was the smooth, thin gold of a Swiss wrist unit. "Financially, no. Professionally, there's little chance for advancement in that area. I chose to use my knowledge and skill where it best suits me and leave the charity work for those who are suited to it."
"You're supposed to be the best."
"Captain, I am the best."
"So, tell me – in your professional opinion…" Feeney reached in his file, drew out copies of the crime scene stills and laid them on the highly polished surface of the desk. "Is that good work?"
"Hmm." Eyes cool, Waverly turned the photos toward him, studied them. "Very clean, excellent." He shifted his gaze briefly to Feeney. "Horrible, of course, on a human level, you understand, but you asked for a professional opinion. And mine is that the surgeon who performed here is quite brilliant. To have managed this under the circumstances, with what certainly had to be miserable conditions, is a stunning achievement."
"Could you have done it?"
"Do I possess the skills?" Waverly nudged the photos back toward Feeney. "Why, yes."
"What about this one?" He tossed the photo of the last victim on top of the others, watched Waverly glance down and frown.
"Poorly done. This is poorly done. One moment." He pulled open a drawer, pulled out microgoggles, and slipped them on. "Yes, yes, the incision appears to be perfect. The liver has been removed quite cleanly, but nothing was done to seal off, to maintain a clear and sterile field. Very poorly done."
"Funny," Feeney said dryly, "I thought the same thing about all of them."
"Cold son of a bitch," Feeney muttered later. He paused in the corridor, checked his wrist unit. "Let's find Wo, chat her up, see about getting a look at where they keep the pieces of people they pull out. Jesus, I hate these places."