Stay cold, she’d said, so that it doesn’t get inside of you. That, he knew, was one skill she lacked. The very fact that it all got inside her was what made her brilliant. And haunted.
“Look at the discs, Eve.”
“I saw them.”
There were dozens, many of the names she recognized. Cops. Bayliss’s little rat file of cops. Reaching, she noted, all the way to The Tower.
“At least he was democratic in his witch hunt.” She saw the one with her name on the label. “We’ll bag them all. It’s going to be a tedious and nasty job to go through them. His machine’s still on.” She sat down, frowned at the blank screen.
“There’s a disc in. And not, I think, one of the victim’s.”
“You touched this?” She whirled in the chair, snarled at him. “I told you not—”
“Shut up, Eve, and run the disc.”
She had more to say, a great deal more. But it could wait until they were alone and she could pound on him in private. She turned back to the screen. “Run current disc,” she ordered.
Words swirled silently onto the screen. There was no audio backup or readout, but simply clear, cool letters on a smoke-gray background.
Lieutenant Dallas, as you are primary in the investigation of the deaths of Kohli, Mills, and now Bayliss, I address this message to you.
I deeply regret the death of Detective Taj Kohli. I was misled, largely by the efforts of the man I am about to execute for his crimes. Crimes against the badge he has misused in his own thirst for power. Is that any less a sin against his oath than that of Mills, who betrayed his badge for money?
Whether or not you agree with me is not my concern. I have pledged to do what I have done and will continue to do.
Because of our connection, I took the time to read the file Bayliss generated on you. If the allegations, the accusations, the data he has compiled is based in fact, you have dishonored your badge. I am not willing to trust the words of a liar, of a twisted, power-hungry cop. But they must be considered.
I will give you seventy-two hours to exonerate yourself. If you are involved with Max Ricker through your husband, you will die. If these allegations are false, and you are as skilled and dedicated as your reputation indicates, you will find the way to break Ricker and his organization in the time allotted. It will require your full focus and all your skills. To be fair, as fairness is my goal, I give you my word that I will make no move against you or anyone else during this time period.
Take down Max Ricker, Lieutenant. Or I will take you.
chapter eighteen
Eve made copies of the message, took the disc and the files into evidence, and turned the computer over to Feeney. He’d haul it into EDD, take it apart, run his scans and checks. That was for form, she knew. The killer had left nothing of himself on the machine but his single personal message to her.
Ricker was on her list, and she meant to take him down. But he couldn’t be, wouldn’t be a priority. Whatever his connection to the killer, Ricker wasn’t the one at the controls.
She was after a rogue cop, and if he wanted to go head-to-head with her, that was fine. But he wouldn’t threaten her into shifting her focus. There was a process to be gone through, and she meant to take it step by meticulous step.
She harassed the sweepers, called the lab personally and issued a few threats of her own along with her demand for priority on the samples she was sending in. As far as she was concerned, if she had to work twenty-four/seven until the case was closed, she would do so. And so would everyone on her team.
Roarke had a different process to work through, a different priority. And an entirely different style. He hadn’t wasted time asking what Eve intended to do or arguing with her over taking precautions for her personal safety.
He left her with her work and made the trip back to New York alone. By the time he’d arrived, he’d already begun the groundwork on his own plans.
He pulled up in front of Purgatory, uncoded the door. The wreckage had been removed, and the first layers of repair were already under way. It wasn’t the elegant arena of sin it had been, but it would be. Very soon.
The lights were on, shimmering over the floor with its newly laid squares of reflective silver squares and circles. The mirrors behind the bar had been replaced, in a deep blue glass per his instructions. The overall effect was somewhat otherworldly.
Or perhaps, he thought, underworldly, which was his intent.
He moved to the bar and was pouring two snifters of brandy when Rue MacLean came down the long, curving stairs.
“I ran a security check,” she said, smiling a little. “We’re up and running. You work fast.”
“We’ll be open for business within seventy-two hours.”
“Seventy—” She picked up the snifter he nudged over the bar, blew out a breath. “How?”