Lieutenant Eve Dallas loitered at her desk. She was stalling, and she wasn't proud of it. The idea of changing into a fancy dress, driving uptown to meet her husband and a group of strangers for a business dinner thinly disguised as a social gathering had all the appeal of climbing in the nearest recycler and turning on Shred.

Right now Cop Central was very appealing.

She'd caught and closed a case that afternoon, so there was paperwork. It wasn't all stalling. But as the bevy of witnesses had all agreed that the guy who'd taken a header off a six-story people glide had been the one who'd started the pushy-shovey match with the two tourists from Toledo, it wasn't much of a time sucker.

For the past several days, every case she'd caught had been a variation on the same theme. Domestics where spouses had battled to the death, street brawls turned lethal, even a deadly combat at a corner glide-cart over ice cones.

Heat made people stupid and mean, she thought, and the combination spilled blood.

She was feeling a little mean herself at the idea of dressing up and spending several hours in some snooty restaurant making small talk with people she didn't know.

That's what you got, she thought in disgust, when you marry a guy who had enough money to buy a couple of continents.

Roarke actually liked evenings like this. The fact that he did never failed to baffle her. He was every bit at home in a five-star restaurant -- one he likely owned anyway -- nibbling on caviar as he was sitting at home chowing down on a burger.

And she supposed as their marriage was approaching its second year, she'd better stop crabbing about it. Resigned, she pushed back from the desk.

"You're still here." Her aide, Peabody, stopped in the doorway of her office. "I thought you had some fancy dinner deal uptown."

"I got time." A glance at her wrist unit brought on a little tug of guilt. Okay, she was going to be late. But not very. "I just finished up on the glide diver."

Peabody, whose summer blues defied all natural order and managed to stay crisp in the wilting heat, kept her dark eyes sober. "You wouldn't be stalling, would you, Lieutenant?"

"One of the residents of our city, who I am sworn to serve and protect, ended up squished like a bug on Fifth Avenue. I think he deserves an extra thirty minutes of my time."

"It must be really rough, forced to put on a beautiful dress, stick some diamonds or whatever all over you and choke down champagne and lobster croquettes beside the most beautiful man ever born, on or off planet. I don't know how you get through the day with that weight on your shoulders, Dallas."

"Shut up."

"And here I am, free to squeeze into the local pizza place with McNab where we will split the pie and the check." Peabody shook her head slowly. The dark bowl of hair under her cap swayed in concert. "I can't tell you how guilty I feel knowing that."

"You looking for trouble, Peabody?"

"No, sir." Peabody did her best to look pious. "Just offering my support and sympathy at this difficult time."

"Kiss ass." Torn between annoyance and amusement, Eve started to shove by. Her desk 'link beeped.

"Shall I get that for you, sir, and tell them you've gone for the day?"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Eve turned back to the desk, took the transmission. "Homicide. Dallas."

"Sir. Lieutenant."

She recognized Officer Troy Trueheart's face as it popped on-screen, though she'd never seen its young, All-American features so strained. "Trueheart."

"Lieutenant," he repeated after an audible swallow. "I have an incident. In response to . . . oh gosh, I killed him."

"Officer." She pulled his location on-screen as she spoke. "Are you on duty?"

"No, sir. Yes, sir. I don't know, exactly."

"Pull yourself together, Trueheart." She slapped out the order, watched his head jerk as if he'd felt it physically. "Report."

"Sir. I had just clocked off shift and was on my way home on foot when a female civilian shouted for assistance from a window. I responded. On the fourth floor of the building in question an individual armed with a bat was assaulting the female. Another individual, male, was unconscious or dead in the hallway, bleeding from the head. I entered the apartment where the assault was taking place, and . . . Lieutenant, I tried to stop him. He was killing her. He turned on me, ignored all warnings and orders to desist. I managed to draw my weapon, to stun. I swear I intended to stun, but he's dead."

"Trueheart, look at me. Listen to me. Secure the building, call in the incident through Dispatch and inform them that you've reported to me and I'm on my way. I'll call for medical assistance. You hold the scene, Trueheart. Hold it by the book. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I should've called Dispatch first. I should've --"

"You stand, Trueheart. I'm on the way. Peabody," Eve commanded as she strode out the door.

"Yes, sir. I'm with you."

There were two black-and-whites, nose-to-nose, and a medi-van humped between them at the curb when Eve pulled up. The neighborhood was the type where people scattered rather than gathered when cops showed up, and as a result there was no more than a smattering of gawkers on the sidewalk who had to be told to stay back.

The two uniforms who flanked the entrance eyed her, then exchanged a look. She was brass, and the one who could well put one of their own rank's balls in the blender.

She could feel the chill as she approached.

"Cop shouldn't get hassled by cops for doing the job," one of them muttered.

Eve paused in midstride and stared him down.

He saw rank in the form of a long, leanly built woman with eyes of gilded brown that were as flat and expressionless as a snake's as they met his. Her hair, short and choppy, was nearly the same color and framed a narrow face offset by a wide mouth that was now firmed into one thin line. There was a shallow dent in a chin that looked like it could hold its own against a fist.

Under her stare he felt himself shrink.

"Cop shouldn't slap at a cop for doing hers," she said coldly. "You got a problem with me, Officer, wait until I do that job. Then mouth off."

She moved into the shoe box lobby, punched a finger on the Up button of the single elevator. She was already steaming, but it had little to do with the oppressive heat. "What is it with some uniforms that they want to bite your throat when you're rank?"

"It's just nerves, Dallas," Peabody replied as they stepped onto the elevator. "Most of the uniforms out of Central know Trueheart, and you gotta like him. A uniform terminates on his own like this, Testing's going to be brutal."

"Testing's brutal anyway. The best we can do for him is to keep this clean and ordered. He's already screwed up by tagging me before he called it in."

"Is he going to take heat for that? You're the one who pulled him out of the sidewalk scooper detail and into Central last winter. Internal ought to understand --"

"IAB isn't big on understanding. So let's hope it doesn't go there." She stepped off the elevator. Studied the scene.

He'd been smart enough, cop enough, she noted with some relief, not to disturb the bodies. Two men lay sprawled in the corridor, one of them facedown in a pool of congealing blood.

The other was faceup, staring with some surprise at the ceiling. Through an open doorway beside the bodies she could hear the sounds of weeping and groaning.

The door across was also open. She noted several fresh holes and dents in the hallway walls, splinters of wallboard, splatters of blood. And what had once been a baseball bat was now a broken club, covered with blood and brain matter.

Straight as a soldier, pale as a ghost, Trueheart stood at the doorway. His eyes still held the glassy edge of shock.

"Lieutenant."

"Hold it together, Trueheart. Record on, Peabody." Eve crouched down to examine the two bodies. The bloodied one was big and beefy, the kind of mixed fat and muscle build that could usually plow through walls if annoyed enough. The back of his skull looked like an egg that had been cracked with a brick.

The second body wore only a pair of grayed Jockey shorts. His thin, boney frame showed no wounds, no bruising, no damage. Thin trickles of blood had seeped out of his ears, his nostrils.

"Officer Trueheart, do we have identification on these individuals?"

"Sir. The, um, initial victim has been identified as Ralph Wooster, who resided in apartment 42E. The man I --" He broke off as Eve's head whipped up, as her eyes drilled into his.

"And the second individual?"

Trueheart wet his lips. "The second individual is identified as Louis K. Cogburn of apartment 43F."

"And who is currently wailing inside apartment 42E?"

"Suzanne Cohen, cohabitation partner of Ralph Wooster. She called for aid out the window of said apartment. Louis Cogburn was assaulting her with what appeared to be a club or bat when I arrived on-scene. At that time --"

He broke off again when Eve held up a finger. "Preliminary examination of victims indicates a mixed-race male -- mid-thirties, approximately two hundred and thirty pounds, approximately six foot one -- has suffered severe trauma to head, face, and body. A bat, apparently wooden, and marked with blood and brain matter would appear to be the assault weapon. The second male, also mid-thirties, Caucasian, approximately one hundred and thirty pounds, approximately five foot eight, is identified as the assailant. Cause of death as yet undetermined. Second vic bled from ears and nose. There is no visual trauma or wound."

She straightened. "Peabody, I don't want these bodies touched. I'll do the field exam after I talk to Cohen. Officer Trueheart, did you discharge your weapon during the course of this incident?"

"Yes, sir. I --"

"I want you to surrender that weapon to my aide, who will bag it at this time."

There were grumblings from the two uniforms at the end of the hall, but she ignored them as she held Trueheart's gaze. "You are not obliged to surrender your weapon without representation present. You may request a representative. I'm asking you to give your weapon to Peabody so there's no question as to the sequence of this investigation."

Through the shock, she saw his absolute trust in her. "Yes, sir." When he reached down for his weapon, she put a hand on his arm.

"Since when are you a southpaw, Trueheart?"

"My right arm's a little sore."

"Were you injured during the course of this incident?"

"He got a couple of swings in before --"

"The individual you were obliged to draw on assaulted you in the due course of your duties?" She wanted to shake him. "Why the hell didn't you say so?"

"It happened awfully fast, Lieutenant. He rushed me, came in swinging, and --"

"Take off your shirt."

"Sir?"

"Lose the shirt, Trueheart. Peabody, record here."

He blushed. God, what an innocent, Eve thought, as Trueheart unbuttoned his uniform shirt. She heard Peabody suck in a breath, but whether it was for Trueheart's undeniably pretty chest, or the bruising that exploded over his right shoulder and mottled the arm to the elbow, she couldn't be sure.

"He got in a couple of good swings by the look of it. I want the MTs to take a look at you. Next time you're hurt on the job, Officer, make it known. Standby."

Apartment 42E was in shambles. Though from what was left of the decor, Eve imagined housekeeping wasn't a high priority of its residents. Still, it was doubtful the place was normally a minefield of broken glass, or the walls decorated with surreal paintings of blood splatters.

Copyright © 2002 by Nora Roberts