"Late twenties, an eye-popper." She dug in her bag to give Mira a copy of the photo. "Never flicked an eyelash going through security. Stabbed him through the heart with a medical scalpel, timing it so his admin was at lunch, giving her time to exit the building-which she did, again without a flick. I'd consider droid, but that would've popped on the body scan. But that's how cool she was-before, apparently during, and certainly after."
"Well planned, organized, and controlled. No reaction." Mira nodded, and seemed steadier with work to balance her. "Possible sociopathic tendencies. The single wound would also indicate control, efficiency, and lack of emotion."
"It's likely the weapon was planted. Ladies' room. Which means someone inside, or with access inside, was an accessory or the driving force. They do a sweep of the building every week, and the cleaning system all but sterilizes the place every night. That weapon hadn't been there long."
"You have the log?"
"Yeah. I'm checking it out. A couple of patients, his staff. But other departmental staffer employees don't log in if they pop up there. Then there's the cleaning crew, maintenance. I'll be running the security discs for the forty-eight hours prior to the murder, see what I see. I doubt the weapon was there longer than that. If it was there at all. Maybe she just had to pee." Eve shrugged. "I'm sorry about your friend, Dr. Mira."
"So am I. If there's anyone I'd want standing for a friend under these circumstances, it would be you." She rose. "Anything you need from me, you have only to ask."
"Your other friend, the one who got smashed up back a ways, how'd she do?"
"He gave her her face back, and that-along with several years of therapy-helped her get her life back. She moved to Santa Fe and opened a little art gallery. Married a watercolorist and had a daughter."
"How about the guy who smashed her?"
"Apprehended, tried, and convicted. Wilfred testified regarding her injuries. The bastard's still in Rikers."
Eve smiled. "I like happy endings."
EVE SWUNG INTO EDD, WHERE, IN HER MIND,
the cops dressed more like club patrons and vid stars than civil servants. Clothes were painfully trendy, hair was colorful, and gadgets were everywhere.
Several detectives swaggered, swayed, or shimmied around the room, talking into headsets or reciting incomprehensible codes into their handhelds. The few who worked at desks or cubes seemed oblivious to the constant chatter of voices and clicks and hums of equipment.
Like a hive of overactive bees, Eve thought, and knew she'd go crazy before the end of a single shift with the e-squad.
Feeney, however-whom she considered the most sensible and stable of cops-seemed to thrive there. He sat at his desk in his wrinkled shirt, sucking on coffee as he worked.
Some things you could count on, Eve thought, and walked in. So intent was his concentration that she'd skirted around his desk to take a look at his desk screen before he registered her presence.
"That's not work," she said.
"Yes, it is. End-"
Without mercy, she slapped a hand over his mouth to stop him from ordering the program to end. "That's not a sim or scene reconstruct."
He made some sound against her palm.
"That's a game. It's a cops and robbers game. Roarke has this."
He shoved her hand off his face and struggled for dignity. "Technically it's a game. But it exercises hand-eye coordination, tests reflexes and cognitive skills. It keeps me tuned."
"If you're going to spread all this bullshit around, you could at least offer me boots first."
"End program." He sulked at her. "Ought to remember whose office this is, and who outranks who."
"Ought to remember some of us are trying to find real bad guys."
He jabbed a finger toward his wall screen. "See that? There's your image match running right now. I ran your girl through IRCCA- name, MO, image. Nothing. McNab ran a standard image match, nada. So I'm running a secondary myself. Got boys going over the equipment from the crime scene, and a pickup unit heading out to bring in the personal from the vic's apartment. Any other little thing I can do for you today?"
"Don't get pissy." She sat on the corner of his desk, helped herself to some of the sugared nuts he kept in a bowl. "Who the hell is she? Somebody who kills like that and doesn't blip on the radar anywhere?"
"Maybe a spook." He scooped up a handful of nuts himself. "Maybe your vic was a sanctioned hit."
"Doesn't play.